Too Soon: A Castle Fan Fiction
by CharacterDriven
Summary: My 1st ever entry for the '2014 Ficathon Entry'. Based on @Fembot77's prompt. All gratitude for Castle goes to Marlowe/ABC; I own only my own words in random order Oh my gosh, I'm writing an actual novel.
1. Chapter 1

This was based on Fembot77's Prompt: Castle, St. Peter, Choices. Location: Pearly Gates

It was about to expire from its 90-minute time limit on so I did a few fixes that needed doing anyway.

**Part 1: Pearly Gates**

_If I could, you know I would_  
_If I could, I would let it go, this desperation, dislocation_  
_Separation, condemnation, revelation_  
_In temptation, isolation, desolation_

_Let it go and so fade away... I'm wide awake, I'm wide awake_  
_Wide awake, I'm not sleeping..._  
_BAD - U2_

"Oh, hell." Rick Castle was wide awake, all right, naked, standing up to his ankles (were those his ankles? He couldn't feel them) in mist. Before him, endlessly high, loomed a wall of cloud, and mounted in that wall of cloud was a pair of gates, made of mother of pearl. Ostensibly. That was a lot of oysters. Or maybe one really big oyster. One really big mutant oyster from space... maybe they just used extruded nacre from a giant, oyster-like wad of flesh, and if that was the case, weren't the Pearly Gates really made by a mutant from some kind of heavenly plastic?

"Ahem."

Rick jumped. "Hi." It had been dead quiet, with no one around, but here stood a little man, no higher than his shoulders. The little man was oddly ageless, also naked, but tanned, hairless, and smooth as an egg all over. He had a big nose, liquid brown eyes, and vaguely resembled Ben Kingsley's version of Gandhi. Except that Rick was pretty sure Kingsley still had his genitalia. At least, he assumed so; he hadn't peeked under the actor's' robe when they ran into one another at the Four Seasons Spa.

Rick nervously checked. He still had his hair, in all the appropriate places, and while he couldn't feel his family jewels, they passed visual. He wondered if people had sex in heaven. Can there be a heaven without sex? Or pets?

Heaven. "Oh, shit." He looked at the little man. "I, uh, sorry, this … it caught me by surprise."

The little man held his hand out to shake. When he moved, Rick thought he saw something about him; not an aura, not a shadow, just a rippling blur, as if there was a great deal more power in him than could be contained by a semblance of skin.

They clasped hands and shook. The old man said, "Santos Petrus. And you are..." He obviously knew.

The whole truth, Rick. "Richard Alexander Edgar Rogers Castle". He suddenly found himself wondering if Kate had gotten the order quite right, or if he had for that matter.

"Haha. One of the Twice-Named," said Petrus, as if that explained everything. He had a little PDA in his leathery brown palm. "This database..."

Rick came around to stand next to him and peer over his narrow, bony shoulder. "What platform?"

"Let me just say Jobs worked on it." The little man frowned. "It's pretty, but it still needs..." he zoomed in with a nail-less finger. Apparently there is no keratin in heaven. But there are teeth. And pearls.

"Really? Jobs?"

"He could be a putz, but the OS got him special dispensation." Petrus opened up his handspan. The PDA turned into a fluttering, blurry, translucent, dovelike thing. Opening its wings wider, it turned into a sort of screen that hovered in the air before them, wide as Rick's arm-span. It made a sort of friendly, cooing trill, and a brief logo flashed: iSoul.

Rick grinned. "That is SO cool."

"As I was saying..." Petrus tickled the screen gently with his fingers, brushing here, tapping there. Rick's name came up; his date, time, and location of birth; his parents' names on both sides although there was a blurry gray area on his father's part; his mother's marriages; his marriages to Meredith and Gina; a somewhat blurry family tree; Alexis; countless lovers – including Kate. So many friends, business associates, a few actual enemies... and to Rick's astonishment, his books, which apparently had souls all their own, lives of their own that went beyond him. He'd always sensed that; how he was trying to catch the words as they went by. The books had demanded to be written. That's why writer's block is so scary... what if the words don't love you anymore?

There were gray areas too, and he found them intriguing: A stray kitten that died, a dog he'd loved when he was seven, a girlfriend's surprise pregnancy that ended before he ever knew about it, a possible line of grandchildren leading from Alexis and two as-yet-unknown loves, a possible line of gray, blurry, nameless children and grandchildren and descendents that he and Kate might have had. "Wait," he said. "I want to look at those."

The old man said quickly, "You don't get to see those. They don't matter to you anymore."

"What do you mean they don't matter? Of course they matter!"

"Not to you. Not anymore. They're grayed out."

"Then why are they still there?"

Petrus sighed. "This is in beta. It's a relational database but I guess all the 'if's have not yet been 'then'd. Still a few bugs in the system."

"Sorry, but..." Rick barged across Petrus and tapped a gray rectangle. Petrus tried to protest, but Rick had faced down Katherine Houghton Beckett, and the old man was nothing compared to her. Rick didn't even bother to wonder whether wrestling an angel was considered appropriate. He held the old man by the chest, feeling something stronger than a ten-foot anaconda (or perhaps a wayward steering wheel) twisting under his grasp, but the link came through as he read right over the little man's head. A Huffington Post article. Rick's eyebrows shot up, and he gasped.

So did Petrus, flailing his skinny arms and kicking wildly. Rick was really glad the old man didn't have a package, but felt mildly concerned that his own might still be vulnerable. He wondered if he was quite all the way dead yet.

Rick read the headline aloud, just to be sure. "Heat of Justice: True Story of NYPD Detective's Battle Against Senatorial Corruption Wins Pulitzer for Investigative Journalism."

Petrus scrambled to fold up the wings. "No, no, no, no no. Oh, bloody hell."

_Whoomp_.

It was the sound of turning on the gas, then forgetting and letting the fumes build up before you light a match and set the kitchen on fire. It was the sound of an exploding Mercedes. It was the sound of Mephistopheles, rising up through the misty floor, oozing sparks out his skin. The living mists of Heaven's front porch fled bleating from around his hooves - or were they black patent-leather stilettos? Red lightning crackled around him. He resembled a hermaphroditic Angelina Jolie, dragged through a lava field with her hair on fire and working it as a beauty treatment. And he wore a codpiece the size of a cod. In fact... it might have actually been a cod. Latched onto the demon's pubic bone with a row of razor-sharp teeth, it was scaly, flapped around, and regarded Rick with implacable, glassy golden eyes. Its gills flapped with a steady rhythm. Rick thought "If I ever get out of here, I'm never eating fish and chips again."

Rick involuntarily stepped back behind Petrus with a little squeal.

Petrus murmured "Relax, Ricky, I got this."

Mephistopholes smiled unpleasantly, "Hey."

Petrus said, "What brings you down here?"

Castle croaked, "Down?"

Petrus waved, dismissing the distinction. "It's all relative."

Mephistopheles said, "You called me?"

Petrus shook his head. "That was a glitch."

The demon's laugh was deep and rich. "And how many times have I heard you say there are no accidents in heaven?"

"Wait," Rick said. "Am I inside the gates or out?"

"Yes and no," said both Petrus and the demon.

"Richard Alexander Rogers," the demon grinned sharply. His tone of voice reminded Rick of Captain Gates: "Mister Castle". A gloating satisfaction in every defect. A probing hope for every flaw. Withering reproval for his very existence. Rick was almost used to it. He shook it off.

"I'm Mephistopheles. You can call me Meph." The demon held out an eager, clawed hand. Apparently Hell has plenty of keratin to go around, but their database was still behind.

Something niggled the back of Rick's brain. Something about The Rules. "You won't mind if I don't shake hands."

Meph guffawed at that. "Oh, you ridiculous little creature. That's just a formality. You're already mine." This time, the hand that reached for Rick was grasping, not friendly, and it seemed to grow larger and larger, lightning threading between the claws like a web, swarming with little red, spidery sparks.

If Rick could have felt his blood drain from his cheeks, he would have felt it then. "Wha- whu." It was like trying to talk after partying all night with those squatters he'd met in Dublin as a teen.

Petrus snapped, "Not so fast," and stepped protectively between Rick and Meph. Rick felt an odd, percussive force pass through him, something like that of a Mercedes being hit by an Escalade. He staggered just slightly. Meph curled back in on himself like a snail retreating to its shell. Except that his horns waggled, instead of eye stalks.

Petrus insisted: "He is twice-named. This is complicated."

Rick had to ask. "What does that even mean to you people?"

Petrus began officiously: "According to Universal Order Structure, article 1479835.1.a:" He cleared his throat. Meph rolled his eyes, and the codfish slapped its tail against his roiling lava thigh, patient as a 15-year-old waiting in line at the DMV for her learner's permit. Not so patient.

Petrus glared at the cod. "Do. You. Mind."

The cod flounced, then calmed down. "Please continue," said Meph.

"Any person who, from their own free choice, renames themselves in an effort to establish a new sense of identity, shall be granted special consideration as their actions are being weighed in the court of Universal Justice. Not only does renaming apply to such steps as legal identity change, this renaming also applies to silently-given self-defining or encouraging nicknames such as 'Champ', 'Honey,' 'Loser', 'Toots', 'The Hammer', and 'Avenger'. Those who choose the second naming of 'Elvis' or 'The King of _ (fill in blank)' will automatically have one point deducted. The rename of 'Dude' and "Jerry" will be taken on a case-by-case basis."

Rick said, "I don't understand."

Meph added, "People who rename themselves after fruit, beverages, or certain substances, such as "Cherry, Brandy, Sprite, Dr. Pepper, Peaches, Candy, or Amber, are considered to be operating under a handicap, and are given an additional point in their favor, because they need all the help they can get."

Rick thought of every stripper he'd ever met. "That seems fair."

Petrus continued. "It means you fully acknowledge free will. People who just take whatever their parents give them, without ever questioning their own purpose or motives, tend to continue through life on that same course. Those who redefine themselves..."

Rick finished for him. "We do for three reasons. A) we're trying to become something better B) we're trying to hide from our past C) a combination of the two."

Meph grinned. "I'd say in your case it's B."

Rick shook his head. "Nope. Anyone who cares to dig a little can find my birth name. That's no big deal."

Petrus said, "Why did you change it?"

Rick sighed, and from force of habit ran a hand through hair he could no longer feel. "I started out just... ashamed. Of my background, and my own failures as a person, as a writer."

Meph said, "I once heard you say you were a fan of all seven deadly sins."

"Not in so many words."

"Sure sounded like you."

Rick paced around, wondering what was holding him up in the clouds, then remembering Fudd's Law: when suspended in space against the laws of physics, _don't look down._ "Look. Everyone grows up doing stupid things. I wanted a clean start. I'm still me, but I took the parts I liked – the optimism and faith in people, the willingness to work hard, the curiosity, the part that cares and has fun... I'm a geek, ok? I'm just a geek. I'm also a major fuckup, but I stopped not trying."

Petrus just blinked and tapped at the screen, barely seeming to listen, scrolling through a list of some kind.

Meph grinned hungrily. "No. You're more than just a geek, Richard. You're the One Percent. THE One Percent. Tall, handsome, male, white, rich, talented, intelligent, charming, so suave you even won over an Amazon like Katherine Beckett. And you don't deserve any of it."

Rick just stared at him, deflating. "I think of her more as Atalanta, just distracting her enough to let me catch up." But that was stalling. It was, of course, true. He wasn't worthy of any of the gifts bestowed on him, and deep in his heart, he knew it. The gates rippled and shuddered, and the clouds swished a little in the disturbed aether. Petrus looked at him dolefully, shaking his head.

The demon continued. "Life isn't fair, Rick. Babies are stillborn, dogs are put to sleep, mothers starve, fathers commit war crimes, asteroids wipe out dinosaurs, Firefly gets cancelled, there's no foam on your cappuccino, Crash wins an Oscar, nations rise, Alanis Morissette can't define irony, stocks fall, and there are some odd socks that will never, ever match."

Rick's voice was thin and reedy. "I worked for everything I have."

"Really. Luck had nothing to do with it?"

"Well yes, luck had a lot to do with it."

"And where do you suppose that luck came from? Do you think God just wanted you to keep Ferrari in business for another year?"

Rick was starting to feel fuzzy, having trouble thinking straight. He looked at Petrus for help. Petrus just shrugged.

Meph said, "You sold your soul, Rodgers."

"What?"

"You were ten. I was right there, sitting on the lion's back, on the New York library steps."

"I did no such thing."

Meph strolled past him, the impact of his platform shoes shivering the hard stones that appeared under his trampling soles amidst the parting cloudlets. Rick heard a faint wailing noise and saw tiny, rubbery hands scrabbling up from black tar between the cobbles. Thousands of tiny hands, like those little soft-toed newts you might find under a damp stone. The stone wobbled, the fingers, straining to find a way out, endlessly pinched and smashed only to take shape and scrabble again. Petrus stepped aside with an air of gloom, the mist around his bare feet soft, white, and yielding. He had no toenails, no calluses, no protection against anything. He was completely vulnerable, yet while sad, he was unafraid. Watching Rick's soul unraveling.

Meph scraped a claw across the translucent screen, and it screeched softly in protest. The demon snickered and lashed his tail. At least it looked like... Rick couldn't help but stare. The demon had a snake's tail up its ass, the head hovering about its ankles. It looked up at Rick and hissed.

The demon's black claws spread out abruptly (Rick couldn't help thinking: "Jazz hands!") and opened up a view-screen, wide enough to recognize himself as a ten-year-old boy onscreen, remembered the moment, although not the point of view from the top of the marble lion's back, by the library stairs. He wore the Danes Academy navy-blue slacks and hideous sweater vest with the red-and-white chevron V-neck. An itchy white polyester-blend shirt and a clip-on tie. His nose had a red welt across the bridge (broken again) which he'd tried to dress with an x of that library strapping tape with the threads in it. He was trying not to cry, trying to reassemble the pages of a notebook that had been torn and stomped and shredded and spat on.

He already read a lot and had a rather dramatic vocabulary. He gritted, "I'd sell my soul to see you rot in hell, you monstrous spawn of Satan." Who had destroyed his notebook? The other kids called him Jeremy. Both he and Rick had been admitted to the school as hardship cases, himself because Martha knew someone, Jeremy because the school took in a few kids with real intellectual potential. This kid had been just his size, with hard, angry brown eyes and a cold smile. But he could have been any number in a string of grinning, stupid, spoiled... philistines. Scared little boys, big enough or fast enough or just plain mean enough to gang up and make him suffer. Just because they could. This time, Rick had almost deserved it – written a snotty limerick. Rick stared at his young self leaning against the lion in misery, and the hurt and rage rose up in him, fresh and raw. It's a strange thing to feel an emotion but not be able to feel the body that ought to be generating it.

"I was just a kid."

Here Petrus made an interesting point. "You can put real estate up to the market then withdraw it from sale."

Rick was surprised. "What? Oh. Yeah!"

Mephistopheles rolled his bloodshot golden eyes. "All right. That was lame. Age of consent, blah blah blah. You couldn't sell something you didn't properly own yet." He licked a fang with his long tongue. There were some sort of little crustaceans latched to the forked tip, like those creepy fish parasites... Meph leaned his weight on one hip, thinking. Smirked. "How about... THIS!" Jazz hands again.

Rick's life did the thing everyone talks about, and which he'd sort of been waiting for:

* * *

**RICK CASTLE: His Life, Flashing Before His Eyes:**

• Being a tiny ball of new cells, Floating in the dark and red, thoughtlessly thinking, "Here. This one." and then, 34-ish weeks later, "Oh, hello."

• His birth, at a clinic in Hell's Kitchen, born too soon (and now he might be dying too soon as well), already in a hurry, the nurse running to get a doctor and coming back to find Martha with him in her arms... then crying in an incubator while they did mysterious things to his mother. And crying, missing the one who'd lived there inside her with him, but wasn't moving anymore.

• Six months old, wailing hungrily at an audition, his mother wheeling him out of the theater in humiliation and sitting down in tears on the front steps of the theater to nurse him...

• A toddler, walking in on a drunken nanny who'd set the couch on fire with her cigarette, pouring 'water' on her, a whoosh of blue, almost invisible flame, being thrown across the room to bang his forehead on the TV...

• A preschooler, already knowing his ABCs, fighting with a boy named Michael over the shoelace practice toy... Michael sliding the knotted string around the neck of a kitten and stringing it up on the jungle gym, laughing...

• His fourth birthday party, Michael screaming at him over cupcakes, and a short, blurry time later, waking up from a nap to find something wrapped around his neck...

• A kindergartener, struggling to write his thoughts down with a stupid fat red-barreled pencil that only made his fingers plod, circle time stealing the story away...

• A first grader, his first crush, a sweet little red-haired girl who thought he was cute and gave him a Valentine...

• His sixth summer, at sleep-away camp on a lake, going fishing and watching helplessly as the trout gasped and died in a bucket of warm water on the dock. The counselor screaming in his face: "MAN UP. They're fish. They can't feel anything."

• His seventh autumn, missing six weeks of school with one illness after another, reading voraciously. Martha stuck at home with him, unable to find work or a sitter. The power being turned off, Halloween by candlelight, all the neighborhood kids sitting there in the dark living room with them, Martha telling ghost stories because she had no candy to give out...

• His seventh winter: Going back to school to find that he was ahead instead of behind, and all the kids either calling him weird or asking him to help with spelling...

• His seventh spring, getting into a fistfight at PS 47 with a round-headed boy named Jeremy who was plucking the feathers off a live pigeon he'd snared under the bleachers. Knocking Jeremy into a wall, both of them being expelled. Jeremy oddly familiar, smirking as he was led away from the principal's office by his foster mom... Martha picking him up from school, furiously proud...

• His eighth Christmas, him at boarding school, eating cafeteria Christmas dinner with the four other kids who couldn't go home either, reading "A Christmas Carol," and wishing a ghost would fly in and carry him out the window. His mother instead, bustling in through the door with a new husband in tow, laughing and warm and smelling of hot buttered rum, taking him home for a whole week of ice skating and new books and a trip to the magic shop...

• His ninth July Fourth, Martha and new, second husband getting into a roaring fight about nothing while the fireworks went off overhead, and him with his hands over his ears even though he loved explosions...

• His fifth grade teacher, the delectable Mrs. Watson, who loved Sherlock Holmes (yes, really!). She insisted on the onerous rainy day Social Dance classes that taught him to conquer the sweat and terror that is the Foxtrot... as danced with Noelle, the chubby girl with freckles who not-so-secretly adored him. (He gave her a rock. She still has it. She now writes steamy fan-fiction, but thank God it's about sparkly vampires instead of him.)

• His eleventh summer: reading Casino Royale in the library, looking across the room at the librarian and wondering if she might actually be a secret agent, as a tall, graying janitor sweeps past him, barely noticed, with a wink and a grin...

• His eleventh Autumn: lighting a bonfire in front of the school office because it was the Fifth of November, and getting expelled because "What do you think this is? ENGLAND?"

• His seventeenth July Fourth, on location with his mother on a movie shoot. It was a sword-and-sorcery epic; she was playing the duplicitous queen (better that than the fawning nanny) and he'd gotten work as an extra, since he was a fencer and fit the "Second Teen In Muddy Rags, With Sword" requirement. He'd made friends with "First Teen in Muddy Rags, with Spear", a friendly, dreadlocked-and-bearded, brown-eyed kid named Declan Connor who coached him on his Irish accent. Connor's American accents – New York, Georgia, Texas, California Valley Girl – were all perfect, and he mimicked Rick's voice with amazing accuracy. Martha stayed on at the shoot site for her own scenes. Connor took the bus back to town and begged Rick to meet up for a visit, promising him good times, 'brilliant craic' and pretty girls. Rick bought a used bike and rolled around the countryside solo for a week. July 4 found him alone and homesick, lighting illegal fireworks in a grassy Irish field full of gassy Irish cows and being collared by the farmer: "What the feck do ya t'ink this is? Feckin' AMERICA?" Rick put on his best North Dublin accent, introducing himself as one Paul Hewson. Sang "Bad" from U2's Unforgettable Fire a capella (perfectly, out of sheer terror) and to this day, your man's down at the pub, his watery old eyes swimming behind bottle-thick glasses, telling his tale about "The Time I Caught Bono Settin' Off Fireworks in My Bull Paddock Like a Feckin' Eejit."

When Rick got to Dublin two days later, he met up with Connor. Connor had a girlfriend, Rosie, who was a bit older, had exquisite legs, and was struggling through pre-med. She'd acted as an extra in the movie with them, and since it was non-union, assisted with makeup as well. Rick hung out with them all day, pub-crawling along the Bloom's Day trail. After a fish-and-chips dinner, they met up with four buskers on Grafton Street. From there, they all went to a squat house, played some music, drank too much, and one of them suggested he try a little snort of H. Connor said, "Yeh know, it's legal here. Perfectly safe."

Already drunk, Rick still had the presence of mind to say "No. I don't wanna mix it with booze." Connor and the tambourine player held him down, and Connor's girlfriend, Rosie, stuffed some in his nose and made him breathe it in. He struggled, but there it was, bliss blossoming through his sinuses and into his brain. It was the first, and only, night of his life that he just did not give a damn about anything. It was heavenly wonderment. In hazy, comfortable peace, he never consciously knew that his heart stopped beating for about 30 seconds before it lazily resumed out of habit. (At this point, Rick, watching himself, said, "Whoa," and Petrus said, "I know. You were stupid.")

Passed out, Connor and Rosie beat him just for fun. The buskers freaked out and tried to stop them, but Connor had turned into something savage and terrifying, and they all scattered like rabbits. Rosie slashed Rick's arm with a razor blade (missing an artery), and together with Connor, robbed him blind. There was no reason he should have survived, except that his heart rate was so low his body didn't bother to bleed out. When he came to, he stumbled out the window they'd clambered in, and he walked for a while, eventually collapsing next to the bronze statue of Molly Malone. A Gardai found him and got him to the hospital. He had to reach the movie production company to contact Martha. She left early, picked him up, cleaned up the mess with the lost passport, and got him home to New York. She didn't speak to him for a week, was replaced by Jean Marsh on the production, and her scenery-chewing brilliance wound up on the cutting room floor. His first novel, In A Hail of Bullets, was about a heroin smuggler who tries to go straight and winds up on everyone's bad side. It hit the best seller list, and out of the 23 people who quit doing or dealing because of his blistering attack on the drug trade, 5 wrote thank you letters. One, in an unmarked envelope from Ireland, contained his stolen passport.

The images came faster and faster, not necessarily in experiential order or order of importance, but a sort of progressive logic, vaguely held together in themes: every girl he kissed just because he could; the one and only time he cheated in school; his first sex, with Jocelyn, whom he thought he loved even though she just thought he was cute and really didn't understand his jokes and only read Sweet Valley High; the time he went to a party with one girl and left with another; the time he didn't have enough money for lunch or the subway, did a dine-and-dash, punched the busboy who chased him down, and jumped the turnstile; the time his friend Alan's girlfriend came on to him and he let her; the time he came on to Jim's girlfriend and she let him; the girl he kept seeing because he was horny and she liked to put out, even though he loved someone else; the "borrowed" motorcycle and the "misplaced" incredibly ugly sweater his great-aunt sent him and the "lost" virginity and the "found" money that occasionally showed up when he least expected it...

The sheer mundanity of his life was exhausting, just like anybody's. Sacred and profane, a mix of food binges, hot showers, cold showers, awkward medical moments, reading the entire World Book Encyclopedia through the 1986 yearbook in one endlessly rainy month, physics tests, birthday parties, fencing matches, first dates, last calls and bathroom breaks when he never bothered to go back to class, coffees drunk, graduations, jobs applied for, skinny dipping, laughing too hard, and people who just thought he was too weird. Vowing over and over that he'd never let anyone see him cry, breaking that vow once in a while. Yearbook inscriptions: "Keep writing, Rick." "You have a great smile. Don't ever change!" "Call me over the summer!" The first time he skydived, target practice, landing his first good punch, orgasms fired (some solo, some with company), watching Rocky Horror for the first time and wondering how it felt to wear stockings, food poisoning from the time he dumpster dived with an idiot urban forager, blaming hangovers on the flu, and showing up to work with the flu because "Rent is DUE, Ricky." Dances and kisses and and his first love (though of course not his first heartbreak). Every single time he got fired from a job he hated anyway. His first real love, Kyra, two years together, gone in a flash. Suddenly he's 22, just getting his BA in political science (because that's what he likes researching at the time), Meredith's pregnant and it's publish-or-perish because if he can't find a publisher, the baby goes.

Holding Alexis, still trying to talk Meredith into nursing because he'd read so much... her folding her arms over beautiful, round, milk-swollen breasts and shaking her head painfully: "I've done my part, Ricky. Now it's your turn."

Holding Alexis, her wide blue eyes fixing on his face with that strange, wise recognition and trust. His mother's voice over his shoulder, quiet and thrumming with pride: "She's an old soul."

"I hope she'll teach me something new," Rick had replied.

Writing, and reading. Book after book after book after book after book. Sitting under a redwood tree in California. Alexis is five years old, with a bandage on her skinny knee, playing cat's cradle. He's picking her up on her last day of Vacation Bible Camp. It was literally his last resort. He had a series of Northern California and Oregon book signings, Meredith was busy on location (and screwing her director), Martha was working in Europe, and it seemed every option had just fallen through. So at the last minute he had basically entrusted Alexis to a bunch of holy rollers who, he later came to realize, actually spoke in tongues. At least they didn't mess around with rattlers. "This is Jacob's Ladder," Alexis says, holding it up. "Jacob wrestled with an angel."

"Did he hit him with a ladder, too?"

Alexis sticks out her tongue at him, and they laugh together. They fly home, she falls asleep on the plane, he carries her out to the taxi.

Alexis dances on the lid of the grand piano in a purple tutu as Martha plays and sings, "Tea for Two". Alexis blows up her science fair volcano with a little too much baking soda. Alexis beats him at Laser Tag. Alexis in a cage, in Paris, climbing out, terrified, clinging to him, both of them shaking, as his father covers their escape with gunfire. Alexis sound asleep, half-naked on the couch, wedged under her boyfriend Pi (who, Rick could see, knew too much about smuggling exotic 'fruit' out of Costa Rica, and who didn't have the grace or sense to cover her up with a throw as she slept trusting in his arms).

Alexis. He would never see her come into her career, maybe marry, maybe have children, buy a house, rescue her from doing something incredibly stupid, blossom into maturity, save the world. All the things he knew she could do, greyed out in a dwindling rectangle.

He stared at the murder board. _His_ murder board.

He said, "There's something missing. _Someone_..."

Beckett.

The first time he saw her was at his first book signing. He was, on his publicist Paula's insistence, wearing tight jeans, a T, leather jacket, aviator shades. He was opening for Patterson, who had very kindly grandfathered him in (privately, in payment for that bet about stealing the police horse). Rick was 20. Little Katie Beckett was twelve, scrawny and shy in braces, her never-dyed hair hanging in waves of chocolate brown down her back. Johanna was a pretty brunette in her late 30s, come straight from work, in a soft grey tweed wool suit. Katie was over in the YA section, absorbed in a Nancy Drew, chewing on a wisp of her hair. She was only a peripheral blur, just a little girl that his conscious mind didn't even register.

Paula introduced Rick as a "bright new star on the crime fiction horizon." He was given polite applause, stood up, pretended to be even more nervous than he was, got a sympathetic laugh. Waved over at Patterson. "I'd like to thank my friend Pat Jameson, I mean Patter- James Patterson, for this opp- chance to, uh, ok, I'll just start then. This is, uh, the first page of of "In a Hail of Bullets."

_"Michael's heart stopped beating maybe eight minutes after he snorted the heroin. It was his very first time. He was already drunk; Declan pulled out a vial of powder, laid a line on a little mirror, snorted it through a straw. Did it again, offered to Michael. Michael had already tried coke, liked it all right, wanted to be sociable. He took a deep snort, and what came back through his sinuses was not familiar, but blew coke right out of the race for Favorite Thing Ever. There was no buzz down the back of his sinuses, but a bitter yet less astringent taste. The feel? Just rolling fog, coming in slowly. He smiled. "What is this stuff?"_

_Kelly leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, her shaggy hair nearly hiding her green eyes. "It's __**H**__, Michael."_

_Being American, he didn't quite understand her. "Haitch?"_

_"Heroin, ya dumb fuck," grinned Declan. "Afghanistan's finest." He sat back in the recliner and sighed._

_"Your accent's so cute, Kelly," Michael grinned. "New Yorkers talk through our noses too much. New Yorkers, we're not usually so friendly as me. I. Am."_

_Michael was already feeling sleepy. His head sort of wanted to be on his own shoulder for a while. He leaned back in Kelly's skinny, needle-tracked arms, fading in and out, smiling faintly. A bliss rolled over him, comforted him, pillowed him, buoyed him. Nothing hurt. No fear. No shame. The loneliness and longing and hollow ache... for the first time in his memory... gone. Kelly extricated herself and sat back to watch the fun, taking a sip out of the vodka bottle. After a while, Michael forgot all about the job of breathing, and being at an odd angle, he rolled off the filthy couch. His chest and jaw hit the coffee table on the way down, and he landed hard on the floor, stone dead. The other squatters laughed. They were all high, too, and didn't notice the blue-gray tinge of apoxia around his slack mouth, under his fingernails._

_It must have been the shock of the fall that restarted his heart. Somewhere underneath it all a little rush of adrenaline pulled him through, made him aware when they beat him, stole his wallet and passport and even his jacket. Although it didn't actually hurt until he woke up a second time, sometime around four a.m., lying alone in a boarded up house, soaked in a pool of his own urine._

_He sat up, dazed, and made it as far as all fours. He hurled, got up, and went for the sink. Of course the water had been turned off for months, maybe years. He found the boarded window through which he'd clambered with his new-found friends the night before. In the predawn light, North Dublin's streets were empty save for a few delivery trucks._

_"Cockles and mussels, my ass."_

_He started down the street in search of a phone booth. He was gonna have to call the consulate. Worse, he was gonna have to call his mother._

* * *

The audience smiled or nodded in all the right places. They cringed in all the right places. At the end, they applauded, and the applause wasn't just polite. In the corner of her Johanna Beckett's eye, the tween girl reading the Nancy Drew book glanced up, annoyed, and went back to it. Katie wouldn't read "In a Hail of Bullets" for a two years yet, and it was that gritty, ugly, angry, life-affirming, and oddly fun book Johanna handed to her when it was time to have The Talk About The War On Drugs.

Patterson sold ten cases of books that night. Rick sold a shocking, gratifying, exhilarating thirty copies of his very first book. Martha had bought the first two. Meredith had given one to her folks. Patterson bought the fourth, but Rick dismissed that as good manners since he'd already read the second draft. The next was bought by a tall old man with a long white beard, in a fedora and tinted glasses that hid most of his face. The old man had shaken Rick's hand with a surprisingly firm grip and grunted, "Good job." Johanna Beckett bought the sixth copy he sold. Of this, his first book.

When Black Pawn published his second book nine months later, Johanna bought the twenty-seventh copy. She bought the thirty-fourth copy of his third book, then skipped a few signings. She came back with her punky, purple-haired, 17-year-old, suddenly-much-taller daughter for the tenth copy of the seventh book: "Who shall I make this out to?"

"Katie. No, Kate. Make it Kate."

He teased the girl gently, as he would his own daughter. "Make it Kate. Sincerely, Richard Castle."

And then Johanna didn't come anymore.

_Kate_.

He saw her standing in line, just a glance. Twenty years old, thin as rail and white as a sheet, dyed black hair pulled back in a severe bun, her eyes hidden behind sunglasses, wearing black and charcoal gray, holding a coffee cup and a pre-purchased copy of that year's newest book, "Hell Hath No Fury". Walking with Gina, he'd hurried past Kate on their way into the bookstore. Kate had barely caught his eye, and he knew he was seeing a reconstructed memory, the kind a witness thinks they see when all they know is a description of what happened. Only Kate had never told him... this. How she'd waited in line for over an hour, how he'd arrived in a flurry of stupid... stupidity, how she'd left at the last minute before even approaching him, thrown her coffee cup in the trash, stood there looking like she was going to throw the book in too. How she'd stared at him, her lips a thin, white line, and he'd paused a moment signing someone else's chest, somehow feeling her eyes boring into him. How she'd turned and walked away, disgusted, and he saw a sick defeat in the line of her bony shoulders. How she'd gone home and read the book in spite of herself, trying to kill the thoughts racing in her head, better than any drug could, even though the book itself kind of sucked. How she'd read about a group of silly, pretty girls dancing naked and riding horses bareback in the moonlight, inventing magical rituals to make their lives feel like they had meaning. How she'd cried with frustrated incomprehension that someone who understood her so well on paper could be so boorish and shallow in person.

Kate. He looked up at his murder board. How many murders had he helped her solve? He stood there, rearranging them by type: accidental death, premeditated, gang-related, revenge. Motive. Method. Opportunity.

"Who's trying to kill me?" He glanced over at Petrus and Meph. They were sitting at a little table, playing Scrabble. Petrus looked over at him and shrugged.

Meph snorted. "Who isn't?" He was laying out tiles, delicately, with the tips of his claws.

Petrus said, "Genqux isn't a word."

"It is now. Triple word score, played on the x... that's... 79 points. Your turn."

Castle looked again at his timeline.

"Kate," he whispered, as if she was standing right beside him. "The timeline's wrong. The story..."

He heard her voice in his mind. "NO. This is NOT how it ends. This... RICK? THIS IS NOT HOW IT ENDS." She was standing on an embankment in her wedding dress, staring at him through the flames of a burning car. His burning car.

What would Beckett do? Do that. He did it. He charged over to the table and rammed it up sideways. It slammed against the pearly gates, they groaned and crackled, the Scrabble tiles flying and, for some reason, safety glass too. Heaven has a windshield? Petrus and Meph stood aghast.

Meph said, "What the fuck."

Petrus ran a hand across his bald pate. "What, are you trying to kill me?"

Kate's angry voice echoed in Rick's mind, a voice that could make a demon turn tail and run. And Rick cried it out loud. "This is my life. MY LIFE." He turned back to the murder board. Story of his life. Storyboard. Whatever.

He frantically rearranged tiles of information like the index cards he still occasionally used to organize his thoughts, had used years before outlining software made his writing so much easier. He banged on the gray areas until they they gave up links, pictures, words. The screen/wings vibrated like a hummingbird's. Meph came close and tried to stop him, Rick pulled a lightsaber out of nowhere and slashed off one of Meph's horns, which fell away in a smoking hiss. Meph went after it and put it back on, welding it into place with a red crackle of lightning. "That was uncalled for."

Rick said, "I officially change this ending from murder mystery to science fiction." He raised the light saber again.

Meph said, "Where did you get that? You're not even wearing any pants."

Rick grinned. "I dunno. Where'd you get your snake?"

Mephistopheles tried to look backwards down his own ass. "Nobody said anything about no mistakes in hell."

Rick laughed, gesturing wildly at the board, which nimbly dodged the "whooomm" of the light saber. "This... You said it yourself. Time doesn't matter here. And I'm seeing these threads... They're not threads, they're strings. I only have a poor layman's understanding of string theory but it's enough to weave a ladder out of, between the fingers of heaven and earth. Jacob's ladder. The moment between a pulse and a wave. The obfuscation of a name, an identity you can't keep straight. This is a storyboard. And I'm a writer. This is my story. And I'm telling you both. It doesn't end here." He pointed to the frame with the car, burning merrily away, the lovely bride weeping at the top of the embankment. _"Too. Soon."_

He couldn't feel his fingers, and the line was nebulous, but he dragged at it anyway, and it extended, uncoiling like DNA, all the way to the end of the board. "Not till here. I am NOT leaving Kate. It's her story, it's my story, it's our story, and it cannot end with me burning to death in a car."

Mephistopheles growled, "That's not how it works around here."

"Well guess what, Meph? 'Here' isn't real. You're not real. You're a construct. You're straight out of a Heironymous Bosch painting, you're second fiddle to a self-absorbed, buzzkill evil overlord, and my girlfriend wears higher heels than yours on her fucking day off."

Mephistopheles' mouth opened wide in shock. Inside his mouth, the parasites on his tongue also dropped their jaws. And inside that... yeah, it just kept on going, smaller and smaller suckers in smaller and smaller mouths. For a hypnotic moment, Rick thought he was going to fall in, and Meph saw his chance, raised his red, webbed claws, ready to finish things. Or start them. But it was Rick's story now, and he was stickin' to it.

Rick said mildly, "Go home, Mephistopheles. You're done here."

And with a shrug and a little poof of sulphur, Meph was gone.

Petrus looked up at Rick, rather anxiously. "I don't know about mistakes, _per se_." He gestured at the murder board. The story board. The hovering dove of memory. He continued, "but that thing's gonna blow up in your face in, uh, no time."

"Right."

Rick was looking at the little movie, himself in the Mercedes, eating up the miles between the City and the Hamptons. Driving through bucolic land, much of it old farms and estates. He loved back roads and obscure local stories, enjoyed history and folklore and tidbits of gossip. So he had a good sense of the area around him. He'd noticed the Escalade fifteen miles back; sometimes closer and sometimes more distant. Once he stopped, it passed him, and then it pulled out behind him again, having been concealed amongst other cars at a seasonal cherry stand. He should have told Beckett he was being followed. He did the next best thing, because just for once he wanted her to have a good day. He didn't want to worry her. He speed-dialed 911: better safe than sorry on this of all days.

"My name is Richard Castle. I'm at risk for abduction and am being followed by a black Escalade. The license plate is Virginian. The numbers have probably been altered, but..." he struggled to keep them straight, reading them backwards and at a distance in the rear view mirror. "My location is approximately..." He went on, giving the details. Boy, were Ryan and Espo gonna be pissed that he called the locals. The dispatcher said, "Stay calm, sir, and I suggest you continue to a location in public. There's a country store half a mile ahead of you. Stay with your car if at all possible, and lock your doors."

Then he called Kate. He watched himself calling her, telling her he loved her. She said "I love you." He smiled, and watched himself smile.

The traces of an overgrown, ancient house foundation caught the corner of his eye, three hundred feet off, in the woods, draped with creepers. He'd noticed and daydreamed about it many a time on the road back and forth. Even done some research, used it as a setting for one of his Claire Sainte Victoire romance novels. He smiled. A romance novel. Time to write another one.

The Cadillac was back on his tail again. Back in his tale. Growing closer.

"Well," Rick said. "Time to wrestle the angel again."

He looked over from the murder board to find Petrus, only Petrus didn't look like Petrus anymore. She looked like a real angel, like his Kate, glowing in tank and yoga pants and sneakers, hair in a messy ponytail. There was a pulse of power around her, better than a halo, better than wings.

"You're gonna have to fight this, Castle," she grinned, and raised her hands in a Krav Maga attack stance. "Ready?"

Rick grinned. "Always."

He closed his eyes, and his opponent was on him.

POW. The airbag inflated and smacked Rick, hard, in the nose. Broken again. His face exploded in pain. The car flew end-over-end off the embankment, hovered almost comically if you were in a Dukes of Hazard episode, then dropped like a cartoon piano. The windshield hit a tree branch that punched a hole right through, deflating the bag and barely missing Rick's right eye. To his shock, the car landed on its passenger side, rocked a tad, then fell back down onto its wheels. He was gonna feel that one in his back, and his left ankle was twisted fiercely by the car's crumpling frame as it hit rock underneath. Dazed, peering through blood, Rick glanced up at the roadside, twenty feet above him. He saw the Cadillac backing up to stop at the gravel curb, a tall man and a stacked woman hesitating, looking down at him. He popped the trunk of the Mercedes, unbuckled his seat belt, and scrambled out on the passenger side, limping toward the trunk on a probably-broken ankle.

Who brings a gun to a wedding?

Someone with enemies. Someone smart and obsessive with details. Someone who likes to plan things. Someone who thinks about contingencies. Someone with resources. Someone who knows people who can get things done.

You thought I was going to say Richard Castle, didn't you?

Haha. Who's writing this thing, anyway?

***  
End of Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

_Dressed up like a car crash  
Your wheels are turning but you're upside down  
You say when he hits you, you don't mind  
Because when he hurts you, you feel alive  
Hey babe, is that what it is_

_Stay: Far Away, So Close - U2 _

_Previously: _

_Who brings a gun to a wedding?  
Someone with enemies. Someone who likes to plan things. Someone who thinks about contingencies. Someone with resources. Someone who knows people who can get things done.  
You thought I was going to say Richard Castle, didn't you?  
Haha. Who's writing this thing, anyway? _

***  
Rick looked up at the man standing at the top of the embankment. The man wielded a 32, small enough to conceal, big enough to do serious damage. His face, even his stance, was eerily like Rick's own, and he was dressed for a wedding. Specifically, Rick's wedding. The tux, shirt and tie matched perfectly, and Rick suspected that once the angle changed, even the shoes would match his own as well.

The man spoke in a voice nothing like his own though: slightly higher, with a Bronx accent. "_There are two kinds of folks who sit around thinking how to kill people: Psychopaths, and mystery writers. I'm the kind that pays better. Who am I?"_

Rick glared up at him. "Well, seeing that you have a pile of offshore accounts that you shuffle around like a deck of cards, I'm guessing you're a psychopath, and my twin brother."

The mystery man froze. He hadn't expected that.

"Don't feel too bad," Rick said. "I only just figured it out."

"This isn't the way I want this story to end, _Rodgers_."

"You and me both, _Tyson_." Rick had grabbed a couple of emergency flares out of his kit. "You're not taking me anywhere. And I'm keeping my goddamn face right where it belongs."

Jerry Tyson fired a warning shot down, close enough to be unnerving. It hit the Mercedes' back windshield, which shattered obligingly. (_Note to self: Upgrade to bulletproof glass in cars._)

"Don't make this any harder on us than it has to be."

"Jerry. Little brother o'Mine? What did Kelly do to your face this time?"

Kelly shifted on her tall heels. "We did try to slow things down. If you hadn't rushed the wedding, he'd have turned out a lot better. There's still some swelling. We can hide that with simulated car wreck injuries."

"Kate will figure it out before you..."

"But Rick, this is a chance for us to perfect our family resemblance. Kate will love the new you."

Rick lit one of the flares, tossing the cap into a nearby bush (although normally he hated littering) and held it like a cudgel. He squinted through blood-seep at his brother, who was edging down the embankment toward him. The walk was pretty close to Rick's. And although Jerry was an inch or so shorter than Rick, he'd bulked up. His hair was styled just so. And his face... Kelly (formerly Rosie, who'd put herself through medical school back in Ireland by stealing drugs from pharmacies and selling them) had definitely rearranged it. Rick and Jerry were hardly doppelgangers, but the family resemblance was much stronger between them now. "On closer inspection, I think the nostrils need serious revision, Kelly."

Kelly huffed. "Get in line. Those nostrils have caused a lot of fan artists no end of trouble."

"Jerry, I don't think the ruggedly handsome gene is playing out so well for you." Kelly had done good work. Yet Jerry still looked a little... off. Rick added, "I'm confused. Were you planning to take my place at the wedding? Looks like you just took the stitches out."

Tyson was getting too close, maybe twenty feet away. He'd matched Rick's tux nicely. Had it tailored. Maybe even bought it at the same shop. His smooth soles slipped on the muddy embankment, and he lost balance, skidding a little on his hip. Both tuxes were ruined now, Rick's with blood and falling flare detritus, Jerry's with mud and leaves clinging to the trousers.

Rick lit the second flare, tamped the lid into the ground, leaving a clear footprint with the plastic cylinder in the middle. A clear sign, he hoped, that he'd survived the crash. In case the police showed up too late.

"Also," Rick added. "I think my nose is broken again." He held up the flares to see Jerry's face better. Their light glowed a raw magenta among the cool tree shadows. Tyson's face looked like his own, only made out of hamburger. "You'll never catch up. You sad, unbroken-nosed man."

Kelly waved down cheerfully from the top bank. "I'll set you up with a few painkillers. You'll barely feel a thing." She held up a hypodermic.

Rick said pleasantly, "Hey, _Rosie_. Is that you? From Dublin?"

She reverted to the Irish accent he remembered from their teens. "Yeh. How'd you tell?"  
"The ankles. They're the only thing you haven't changed, but either way they're still drop-dead gorgeous. You ever get licensed?"

She glared daggers at him. "It's not my fault the board didn't appreciate innovation."

"Maybe they didn't appreciate that you're a raving LOONY," cried Rick.

Tyson had the gun trained on him. "You know, I really don't need anything but your face," he said speculatively.

Rick shook his head. "Your ears are all wrong. You have those dangly earlobes. Damn cute, though. Beckett tells me that the whorls of the ear are impossible to fake, by the way. The CIA even uses them to identify body doubles... Plus, she really loves my enormous and talented... hands."

"Are you baiting me?" The triple killer was scowling, but his voice was as pleasant as Rick's.

"Sure. Family trait. We all do it. You should see Alexis playing Airsoft."

Tyson smiled icily. "That's the plan."

Rick swallowed that ice, the hard, cold anger growing in him. "And you'll write crime stories under my name. True crime stories."

"You can do the ghost writing. To my specs."

"Really? And you'll make little Tyson babies with my unsuspecting wife? You got the pond scum off our gene pool."

"Little _Rogers_ babies," Jerry corrected. "I know everything about you, Rick." He grinned, and added in a perfect Dublin accent, "And it seems actin' runs in the feckin' family."

"Thievery doesn't. You dosed me with heroin and stole my passport."

"And I've been stealing – no, claiming your identity ever since. A few offshore bank accounts will trace back to you at some point. I'll sprinkle a little of your DNA around a usable length of green and white rope. And then we'll all disappear without a trace. You and your family will die slowly, and Kelly and I will relax on a nice tropical beach with all the meat we can slice."

"Kate will never let you get that far."

Tyson chuckled. "We'll let her think you're dead for awhile. Kidnap and hold you. Maybe send her a few dispensable bits, get her desperate."

Rick shrugged off the sickness he felt inside. He understood the game now. "Yeah, yeah, talking criminal, rule the world, blah blah blah."

Jerry glared. "Don't interrupt. Kelly's an artist at this. For a while, Kate will be able to tell us apart. But the lines will blur, and as the stitches heal... she'll stop caring."

Rick hid his disgust and horror under false cheer. "You have no idea how stubborn that woman can be."

Tyson smiled. His imitation of Rick was chillingly accurate: "Kate. You are the most maddening, challenging, remarkable woman..." His eyes narrowed. "You wore her down. So will I."

The blood drained out of Castle's face. _Kate's apartment was bugged, too?_ He set his horror and rage aside. _Of course it calm. You will not win this by losing your cool._ "And mother? She'll know in a heartbeat."

Tyson snapped, "She wanted _me_, you know. She wanted to keep me, and leave you with the agency. I have our father's brown eyes. His earlobes."

Rick froze. Did their father know? Had he known about Jerry Tyson all along? That didn't make much sense. "I dunno. I think I'm the cute one and you're the funny one."

Tyson coughed.

Rick said, "I don't suppose you're gonna cover your mouth."

Tyson shook his head, still fighting for breath. Kelly called down, "You all right there, honey?"

Rick said, "That's a hell of a cough. What happened, you get pushed in the drink by your big brother? I _am_ the oldest, you know."

Tyson wheezed, "That's bullshit. I came out first." He holstered his gun, pulled out a handkerchief, spat green into it. Months later, Tyson hadn't completely shaken pneumonia, despite whatever antibiotics Kelly had pumped him with. Rick cataloged that as a weak spot.

"Oh, I don't think so. I shoved ahead as usual. You came out blue. Mother was hemorrhaging. They thought you were dead. The clinic took us to the emergency room. They sold you to pay for the medical costs. Mother never even knew you took your first breath." He made this all up, based on what he sort-of-remembered from his flashback. It was logical, but he had no idea whether it was really true. What the hell had happened when they were born?

Tyson's eyebrows would have shot up a little if he'd been able to move them at all. His hairline did something twitchy, though.

Rick cocked his head. "You didn't wind up with CP, but brain damage might explain the little psychotic episodes." His ankle was throbbing in pain, the adrenaline fading a bit from the crash. Now he felt a strange sense of calm in the face – haha, face – of his fraternal twin brother. Despite Jerry's gun trained on him, Rick was trying to walk that fine line of stretching patience without breaking it. Driving Kate crazy had, oddly, prepared him well to treat with crazy people.

Jerry snickered. "I'm not a psychopath. I'm a sociopath. You're getting sloppy."

"Odd, you and I are usually so obsessive about researching the details..."

Tyson lunged at him. Rick swiped at him with both flares, a hot, red, Mephistophelian arc. Tyson backed off, grinning. "Another family trait. We like to do things with... flare."

This is the weird part. For a moment Rick remembered Declan, the hairy, funny kid friend he'd made on-set in Ireland. The one who got his jokes, made him laugh, almost felt like a new-found brother. And here, Castle and Tyson – or whatever the hell his name was – both chuckled, genuinely amused. Rick smiled at him, because it was something he himself would have said. "You're right. It really doesn't have to go this way." And then he was hit by sadness, because there was no way this was gonna have a happy ending for anyone involved. Declan had won his trust and nearly killed him. Was here to finish the job, with a vengeance.

It should have been the opposite, but a tiny, weary, shocked part of him let his guard down, just enough. Tyson's eyes went dead as a snake's, and he leaped at Rick. Rick, with his busted ankle, was already off balance, leaning his hip against the bumper. Tyson had him on the ground, on his back. One of the flares went flying under the car. Rick panicked a moment, expecting it to blow, but as he glanced over he saw the red flame somehow disappear down into some kind of hole. The undercarriage of the Mercedes was partly hidden in dead leaves and tall, weedy spring grasses. But from his back on the ground, he saw a faint, pink glimmer reflecting on the muffler.

With his foot on Rick's chest, Tyson shot his opponent in the right wrist at close range. Third carpal shattered, Rick's hand reflexively opened, dropping the second flare. The flare landed in more leaves near the tailpipe, unimpeded by the dampness but now sending up pale gray, steamy smoke. Rick lay a moment, stunned with pain, suddenly limp. He closed his eyes, trying to master himself, catching his breath. He clamped his hand around his wrist, trying to stem the blood flow. FUCK, it hurt. How had he ever written so blithely about being shot? "So much for research," he winced. Research didn't mean shit. He gritted, "I should've shot myself just a little bit years ago."

"We can work on asphyxiation and knife play, too. Add some depth to your storytelling."

"This is gonna slow the ghost-writing down a little, Jerry."

Tyson snickered. "You can dictate. You love the sound of your own voice so much."

Rick thought of Beckett and the bullet that had grazed her heart. Realized it had been his voice that kept her from leaving altogether, leaving the pain behind. He thought it again, cradling her in the cemetery, pleading with her soul not to leave her body: _"I love you, Kate. I love you."_ And her answering voice in his mind, from just a minute or two ago, separated by a lifetime of near misses: _"I love you."_

Seeing a moment of pure peace in Rick's face, Tyson called up to Kelly. "I think he's out."

One of the first rules of not getting murdered: If you let a kidnapper move you to a new location, you're much more likely to die. Rick decided to go limp and focus on his breathing, just to let himself rest and recover a moment. Tyson raised a fist to punch Rick, who didn't react, his eyes being closed. Kelly admonished, "Not the face, you're both banged up enough already. Besides, he'll be dead weight as it is, getting him up the cliff to the car."

Tyson sighed and slipped his gun into a shoulder holster under his tux jacket. "Come down and help me carry him."

"I'm wearing heels."

"How many times have I told you to wear shoes you can walk in?"

"Hold on. I'll get the rope."

She opened the Escalade's rear passenger door.

Tyson said, "Sling the rope over the grip handle..."

She rolled her eyes, exasperated. "I _know_. Pulley. How many times have we done this?"

Tyson chuckled. "Twenty-three, just counting the strangulations. We're not strangling him."

Kelly called down blithely. "Not yet, anyway... Ready?" She secured her end, then tossed the coil down to Tyson. He walked a few steps away from Rick to catch it.

Rick lay still, watching Tyson through his eyelashes, fighting down revulsion and panic. Tyson was returning to him, pausing a moment to look down at the green and white rope, caressing it between thumb and forefinger.

Kelly said, "I think I hear sirens."

Tyson's eyes went as wide as the stitches would allow.

Kelly added, her voice sharp with sarcasm, "Great. Discreet location. Nobody around for miles."

"It's probably just some poor soul getting a speeding ticket," Rick croaked, sounding a bit woozy. "Either that or I hit the panic button on my car."

Tyson smirked. "I disabled that."

Rick opened his eyes and smirked back. "The other panic button."

Tyson roared and lunged at him, eyes wild. Rick went for the flare with his good hand, rolling into the smoking leaves, but couldn't quite reach. He tossed some dirt up into Tyson's eyes, and even with the psychotic _(sociopath my ass!) _energy, there are some disabilities that can't be trumped: even Micheal Meyers would have to pause an attack, at least temporarily, if blinded, or hamstringed. "_Arrow to the knee. Knee to the groin. Whatever it takes,"_ thought Rick.

From his current angle, and since he didn't have an arrow, heel to the groin worked all right. Jerry didn't scream, but let out a sickening, long, drawn-out, growling sort of "eeeeeeeeeegghghgh" noise. He fell over blindly but intentionally across Rick's torso, pinning him, and they swam awkwardly in the pile of leaves like a couple of beached turtles, unable to get the leverage to do any real damage.

Kelly screamed, "SHIT!" and hauled the rope back into the van, not bothering to coil it. Then she grabbed her purse, and took out her cute little red pearl-handled .32 (The pearl was not made from red oysters, but was rather of extruded plastic blended with nacre dust, and had never been anywhere near heaven. But it did - more or less - match her lipstick.) When she returned to the road's edge, she realized she'd turned her back and was now confused. Two men, similar frames, identical tuxes, both bloodied and filthy, swatting ineffectually at each other, rubbing dirt in each other's bloody faces, rolling on the ground, growling like dogs.

Crying "Stop!" Kelly fired her first shot straight up into the sky. This only works in the movies. The men, too absorbed in their battle, barely noticed. The bang hurt her ear, the powder singed her blonde wig, and the gun jerked, tweaking a tendon in her thumb. She was too high on Percoset to really care, but realized with annoyance it might make her tendonitis flare up later.

Kelly's bullet fell back down to earth where it belonged. Unfortunately, it missed her, but popped a hole in the roof of the SUV. She was too damn vain to wear bifocals. She grabbed her distance glasses out of her purse, and hoped she'd be able to distinguish her lover from her prey. She took aim at the man on the bottom (whom she hoped was Rick), missed, and shot the Mercedes' gas tank. Any faithful Mythbusters fan knows that shooting a gas tank won't automatically make a car explode. But shooting a gas tank and having a lit flare waiting for the leak is like peeing on the third rail of life.

"Ok, that's it," she squawked. "I am _not_ going down there." And she ran for the car, leaping in, starting up, pulling out, fishtailing only slightly. Those Escalades are heavy, but surprisingly maneuverable. So glad she had the spare key. She'd never liked Jerry's driving anyway.

Rick knew he had only a second before certain death. Jerry was sitting on him, Rick trying to fend off blows. But one of the many benefits of having stand-up morning shower sex with Kate Beckett almost every day for two years: it's really good for the quadriceps. Rick thrust his hips up off the ground abruptly, sending his nemesis tumbling off to the side. Jerry landed, screaming, in a pile of burning leaves and gasoline.

Rick didn't have time to say it, but he thought it with a bitter, exhausted smile: "Looks like you've been Rick-rolled, brother." Then he did some rolling himself: under the car that was about to explode, and into a deep, dark, abandoned shaft.

_**BOOM.**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Too Soon Part 3: I Wanna Get It Wrong**

_Sometimes I feel like I don't know  
Sometimes I feel like checking out  
I wanna get it wrong  
Can't always be strong  
And love it won't be long_

_Oh sugar, don't you cry_  
_Oh child, wipe the tears from your eyes_  
_You know I need you to be strong_  
_And the day is as dark as the night is long_  
_Feel like trash, you make me feel clean_  
_I'm in the black, can't see or be seen_

_Baby baby baby light my way_

_Ultraviolet – U2_

**BOOM. **

From about 3 miles west, the Suffolk County sheriff, Andrew Kloskins, and his deputy, Bob Mullins, saw the fireball. The nature of light and sound being what they are, the BOOM came a moment later.

"Holy shit," said Sheriff Kloskins.

"Damn," said Holst, grabbing the radio.

"Hey, Holst."

"Hey, Estelle. I need another patrol car at 8mile. Make it two, have one come south from Mile Twelve and intercept anyone who's driving weird. Plus we need a fire truck and an ambulance. This is bad, honey, get right on it."

Estelle called for backup and an ambulance. "Hope we're not too late."

They rounded a long curve, came to the straightaway, and seeing the tire marks on the asphalt, pulled over just before the crash scene, lights still flashing. While they completely missed any sight of the long-gone Escalade, these officers were no country rubes. The Hamptons has its share of overly-wealthy, and the poor who wait on them and barely get by. When you have a concentrated population of struggling servant class, you have people who will do anything to make ends meet: people who smuggle – whatever it might be - from one place to another on boats, or try to grow marijuana in the humid summer among tracts swathed with Virginia Creeper and poison ivy, or cook meth in old barns and storm cellars dotting the countryside. Sheriff Kloskins and his deputy knew what they were doing. They were well-trained and careful not to disturb the tire tracks, the bullet casing, or the tire marks where the Mercedes had flown over the side and exploded.

Sheriff Kloskins said, "Radio for a tow truck and fire truck as well." He got out and, watching his feet to avoid disturbing evidence, he hurried to the edge of the asphalt, noting by long practice the fallen car's tire tracks, the signs of fresh footprints both male and female, and a bit of sprayed, fishtailed gravel.

Holst hadn't even had a chance to get out himself. He was rattling the intel off to his dispatcher when Kloskins leaned in over the door frame, his face grim and a bit tinged with smoke. "Coroner, too."

"Estelle, send Dr. Dinkmeyer out with the van. We have a stiff."

Kloskins glared at his insensitivity and motioned for the radio. "Hey Estelle, we got anyone working private security at the Castle wedding?"

"Yeah, Perroni's running it. I got the number."

The sheriff was holding Rick's cel phone, which had been thrown clear when the car landed on its side then tipped down. "Tell Perroni to keep everyone at the house, and calm. Hampton central office tipped us that there are heavy security issues with the Castle wedding. Don't let the bride leave the premises unless under protection. And the security contract will likely have the bride's cel number, we need it now. Also call Chief Brady and apprise him of the situation. He'll want to send a car out to the house, if not himself."

"Oh, crap, Kloskins. She's a cop?"

"Yeah, it's gonna be a mess," Kloskins said. "Gotta go."

He looked at Rick's phone, with no idea how to use it.

Holst put a hand out. "Here, let me."

He woke the phone up. They couldn't figure out the password to call Kate. Fortunately Perroni called a moment later from the wedding, whispering. "I got her number from the caterer. The groom's 15 minutes late, and people stopped joking about parachutes a while ago now."

"Just give it to me," Kloskins said. He wrote Kate's number down. "Thanks."

***  
It wasn't strictly true that Rick and Kate had only invited the guests they really wanted to attend. Captain Victoria Gates was duly invited as Kate's boss, plus 3 including her husband and kids (whom nobody had ever seen; there was some speculation that she'd photoshopped something from Stockphotos). Gates graciously declined and spent the day at work, covering for her three best detectives.

Rick's publicist Paula Hass, who had slept with Rick 'for fun' a few times a decade ago on a book tour and never quite gotten over it, was invited and didn't attend. Instead, Paula stayed home with her cat, folded laundry, watched reruns of The Nanny, and ate two pints of ice cream, although she'd only intended to have a scoop of each. She also ran on her treadmill and did 300 situps in sets of 25.

The mayor of New York City had accepted, but had a last-minute cancellation to deal with the aftermath of a house party his teenage daughter threw the night before without permission.

One uninvited guest showed: A paparazzi, one Bill Shackleford, got a tip on about the hush-hush wedding plans and took a few shots of 200 attending guests, the buses, and the gorgeous backyard overlooking the beach. He never glimpsed the bride or groom. Shackleford awoke twelve hours later in the upstate woods with a sunburn, a fierce headache, a red pin-prick on his neck, and a completely blank SD card in his camera. He missed the whole "exploding car" revelation and was fired from his job. And Jackson Hunt, preoccupied with overdoing the media management, heard about Rick four hours too late.

The people who did show up at the wedding really did want to be there, each for their own reasons. Meredith, ostensibly to support her daughter but really to remind Rick of what he was going to be missing. Gina, because even though the wedding was private, it was still an event, and if it made the presses, she wanted that event to look good. The blushing couple had (in her opinion, foolishly) gone somewhat DIY rather than hiring a wedding planner, and she'd stepped in several times through the day, directing caterers and florists and decorators, getting the DJ situated, putting out favors and place cards, even slicing lemons (because lemonade without lemons just looks like dirty water to Gina).

Kevin and Jenny Ryan laid a picnic blanket out on the grass and sat playing with their baby, Gracie. Gracie had developed a great interest in blowing spit bubbles. She also enjoyed tummy raspberries. You can spend a lot of time doing that before it loses its charm, but in the back of his mind, Kevin was hiding concern.

Castle had taken him and Esposito aside a few weeks before the wedding. "Look. I know Alexis is technically my best man. But, if anything goes wrong... I know I can trust you to look after all my girls, as I'd do for you. Are we good?"

They'd stacked hands. "You know it, bro," Esposito had said.

Ryan had nodded. "You got it." No spit needed.

Here on this sunny, somehow worrisome day, Ryan glanced over at Espo and Lanie, who were having eye-sex but keeping hands discreetly to themselves.

Jenny shared her husband's beleaguered gaze. "They're in the next guest room tonight," she sighed.  
He grinned. "Well, if we're awake all night, it won't be because of the baby."  
"Nice for a change, I guess."

Perlmutter arrived on the last bus, and his Plus One. She turned out to be an extremely lifelike doll named Arlene, ensconced serenely in a wheelchair. Her caramel-brown hair was cut in wavy layers, her expression bland and sweet, pink lips glossed and curved around a gentle "oh". She bore a slight, but not too disturbing, resemblance to the bride. While the other passengers stared with very mixed emotions, Perlmutter maneuvered her chair into the charter bus and locked her into the wheelchair dock. He kept her company the whole way. Once arriving at the Castle estate, he navigated her into a sunny area of the backyard, pulled up a chair, and sat with his arm around her, looking out over the ocean, talking about the time he went to Montauk when he was four and a horseshoe crab scared the daylights out of him. Arlene seemed shy and disinclined to make conversation. Given his social skills, they really were perfect for one another.

***  
Meredith had been invited because 1) she was Alexis' mother and 2) Kate liked the idea of keeping her frenemies close. Meredith no longer had particular sexual designs on her ex-husband, although if Rick had hauled her into the cabana and given her one last pre-wedding thrill for old times' sake, she would have taken him up on it. But Ricky was nowhere to be seen, and Meredith's free agency was fine by her. She loved a man in uniform (or out). Even an off-duty cop filling in as security at her ex-husband's wedding. She'd had a few glasses of wine at lunch on the way out to the Hamptons. She was feeling flushed and irritated, trying to catch Officer Perroni's eye, but he was on the phone, and when she gave him a come-hither look, he turned away from her. Frustrated and wondering if she was getting old or something, she found an older woman sitting on a bench in the shade. Meredith sat down, hoping to keep her ivory skin from burning in the late afternoon sun.

"Mind if I join you?"

"Not at all." The older woman was tall, not elderly but silver-haired, with clear green eyes and high cheekbones, wearing a lavender linen pantsuit.

Meredith grinned. "I love weddings, don't you?"

"I do when the bride and groom are both on time," the woman replied. She fanned herself with a wedding program.

"Ricky tends to run late sometimes. But, you know, never when he's in love." She paused at the woman's glare. "I mean, I'm sure it's not his fault, he's just unstoppable, I mean..." she blushed. "He's a wonderful man. I'm sure they'll be very happy."

The older woman said, "I trust you're one of Mr. Castle's _ex-_wives."

Meredith simpered, "Why yes, how did you know? I'm Meredith."

The lady arose from the bench, fanning herself gently. "That's too bad. I'm Teresa Beckett."

Teresa smiled politely, turned and walked away to speak with her brother Jim Beckett, who kept going back and forth around the house, to the driveway, looking up at the sky, searching anxiously for a pleasant surprise.

"The groom's late," she said quietly. She was glad to see that Jim didn't have a glass in his hand.

Jim's anxious frown smoothed, reassuring himself as much as his sister. "He'll be here. Hell or high water."

"Were you expecting him to parachute in?"

Jim chuckled. "I wouldn't put it entirely past him."

"He's rather a self-centered prick if he's keeping her on tenterhooks like this."

"I've come to believe Castle's self-centered prick days are over." Jim hesitated. "I'm worried about him."

Meredith sighed. This wedding was turning into a serious dud and they hadn't even gotten to the reception yet. She stole a look over at the rent-a-cop. He had a really nice ass. Perroni pocketed his phone, took off his sunglasses, and was rubbing his eyes. As an actress, Meredith prided herself on her study of body language. Something in the set of his broad shoulders made her heart skip a beat in alarm. He hurried away toward the house, with the kind of of determination used to portray Bearer of Bad News. Meredith saw a sort of chain reaction follow in his wake. Detective Esposito and Dr. Parrish stopped a lively conversation and rose slowly from their seats. She watched Esposito follow the security cop into the house, and Parrish ran to Detective Ryan, who was holding his baby on his lap, talking to his little blonde wife. He handed the baby off, the wife took her as if the sky was about to fall on them, and then they all hurried toward the house.

Meredith then realized that something big had gone wrong, and true to form, she cried out, "What happened? Where's my Ricky?"

Kate stood on the side of the road, staring down the embankment at the car, which was still engulfed. Bits of ash stuck in the tracks of her tears. Esposito and Lanie had stayed behind a moment, convincing the rent-a-cop that Kate needed to go to the crash scene. Kevin had decked the Rolls driver, commandeered the car (which not only was the fastest on the premises but was also blocking the driveway) and hauled Kate there at 135 mph, convinced (rightly) that she was in no condition to drive.

"Stay in the car," he ordered, and for a moment, Kate actually obeyed him. She sat in the passenger seat, stunned, while he jumped out and ran down the road toward the crash site, so fresh it hadn't even been taped, keeping his wits about him, gleaning intel from the emergency crew on hand. Javi and Lanie roared up a moment later to find Kate standing there like an urban legend come to life. The coroner's van arrived a moment later, and Lanie took her friend's arm. "Let me take care of this, at least as much as they'll let me," she told Kate. "I don't want you seeing... anything..." her voice hitched.

Kate nodded. She was clearly in shock. "It's not him," she said quietly. "Please don't let it be him." But she'd heard a lot of bereaved people say things like that.

Kate hadn't seen the body. Lanie, whose suitcase was still in the trunk of Javi's car, put on some sneakers, showed her ID to the sheriff, and Javi helped her pick her way down the side of the embankment, well away from possible evidence. They circled around to the blackened, smoking area around the car.

It's tricky to quell a petroleum-based fire as it is; putting it out without destroying evidence is almost impossible. It was an ashy, muddy mess.

Esposito said, "Careful. There's still a lot of loose sparks."

Lanie hitched up her skirts, heedless of the muddy destruction on the emerald green fabric, just intent on neither tripping nor destroying evidence. The supervising coroner, Dr. Ronald Dinkmeyer, was already taking a DNA sample, while another took photos. Lanie gave the corpse a once-over, then spoke to Dinkmeyer.

"I'm Dr. Elena Parrish. NYPD. I'm... acquainted with the car's driver."

"I've heard of you." Dinkmeyer handed her a pair of blue gloves and she donned them, then took another good look at the body and hesitated. Said the things they all observed, just to establish that she knew the protocol. "Adult male – Caucasian?"

Dinkmeyer nodded. "Looks like it."

Lanie continued, hiding in the facts, trying to stay objective, realizing as the numbers added up that this could very well be her friend. "Approximately 6'0 to 6'2", 210 to 220 pounds, medium to robust frame. Cause of death..."

Dinkmeyer picked up the assessment when her voice failed. He seemed like a nice guy. "Most likely immolation, possibly smoke inhalation, possibly blunt force trauma with the fire set to hide DNA evidence. Definite signs of a struggle."

"The car exploded," Lanie said. "He must have died pretty quick." The corpse was on its back, most of the tux and flesh burned off. Above the ankles, the body was nearly charred with a core of well-done-to-rare meat, the mouth opened and black tongue screaming up at the sky. Lanie flinched and looked away, overwhelmed. This had never happened to her before, being on the crime scene of someone she truly loved. And despite all her sass, she adored Rick. Her eyes filled with tears. She felt sick, looking up at Kate, hovering up there in white like an angel. Kate who had, at 19, identified her own mother on the slab when her dad broke down. Lanie was smitten with anger. "Life is too fucking cruel sometimes," she growled.

The coroner, Ron Dinkmeyer, said, "I understand it's very probable this victim is Richard Castle, and that you're acquainted with him. Under the circumstances, I'm not sure you can be objective. Identification can wait till we get to the morgue, get the DNA tested."

Lanie shook her head. "No. It can't."

Ryan was openly crying. Esposito's face was gray and blank. _"Pull it together, girl,"_ Lanie thought. She spoke to Dinkmeyer. "Wallet?"

The coroner shook his head. "Might be in the car." The car was still smoking and too hot to touch. It stank.

Lanie shivered. _"I can do this,"_ she said to herself. But she had to work her way up. She looked at Javi and Kevin. "I never thought I'd say this, but I wish Perlmutter was here."

And, weirdly, they got it. Javi's face crumpled a little and he had to turn his back. Kevin gave her a sad little chuckle. "We could use his own special way of not giving a shit."

She squatted in the mud left over by firefighting. The soil was clay, and the fire had baked it in some places, leaving hard-edged depressions. "You know two men were fighting here, right?"

"How can you tell?"

"Handprints. See? Larger hand here. And some blood on the leaves here in the body's shelter. It's cooked brown, but it's blood. Here, this print's slightly smaller. No blood."

Dinkmeyer was taking notes.

Lanie did an overview of the clothes. "I helped them plan the wedding. We went over every detail of every thread the wedding party wore." She closely examined the shoes, which were a bit muddy but barely worn. Lanie even knew what kind of boxers Castle was expected to wear (although she wondered if he'd change into something goofy at the last minute, which apparently was a thing with him). For some reason she found herself fighting a smile. She realized this was a kind of denial, that she was in a bit of shock herself. She said, "Does Castle ever wear a shoulder holster?"

Ryan and Esposito shrugged. "Not that I know of."

"Well, it definitely wasn't in the list of approved wedding attire."

Javi had pulled himself together. The Mercedes' trunk was still open, still had a charred suitcase in it and someone had gotten into a snazzy emergency kit. The metal box was open and its contents melted. There were nifty holders set up to hold four flares. four had exploded and left heaps of ashy residue. Two slots seemed like they might have already been empty. "Looks like two flares might have been used. Any sign of them?"

"They might have been used to torch the car," said Dinkmeyer. Ryan, Esposito, Kloskins and Holst started combing the area, looking for anything, a little pile of residue, that might have been left behind.

Paydirt: Esposito found Tyson's gun amongst the leaves. He held it up. "Anyone recognize this?" He turned it in his gloved hands for examination. "Thirty-eight Glock. One round fired. Think it matches the hole in the fender?"

Dinkmeyer shook his head. "That was likely a 22, from up on the road."

Esposito said, "Maybe dropped in the fight."

He and Ryan continued the search. They found the caps of two flares, one ground down in Rick's own heat-baked footprint. Later they'd find his prints on the cap in the gooseberry bush. The embedded lid had melted. Castle had definitely walked away from the crash. Definitely lit one flare, maybe two.

Lanie took a deep breath and readied herself to look at the corpse. She decided to start with the feet. "Shoes are brand new. Size 12." She sighed. "So far, so bad. But there's no way to tell from wear." She checked the socks, black dress silk/spandex/cotton blend, which had set the wedding budget back $80 for Rick and Jim. The body was progressively more burned as she moved up. "You have a DNA sample?"

Dinkmeyer nodded. "I'll check for a match on the leaves."

She looked closely at the knees. "Castle dislocated his right patella last spring. The connective tissue's burned away on the right knee here, but I'm not seeing any scarring." She and Javi exchanged a hopeful glance.

Lanie stopped her overview at the hips. This man had been wearing black silk boxers, just like all the other men in the wedding party. She closed her eyes. "Any jewelry? The groom was carrying the wedding rings."

Dinkmeyer said, "Nothing so far. If there was a fight, they might have fallen out of his pocket. Might be in the car with his wallet. I'm waiting on the back pockets till we get the body off the ground. Sheriff Kloskins found his phone on the ground near the passenger side. Must have dropped it when he got out."

Lanie nodded, resigned.

"Any sign of a weird Egyptian tattoo on the right hip?"

"No, but the skin's pretty well burned away. We'll have to send it for analysis."

Esposito said, "Castle has a tat?"

"We had an awkward moment at that pool party he threw last July Fourth."

Javi's eyes went dark with shock. "He make a _pass_ at you?!"

Dinkmeyer got up and stepped away, listening in but humming casually, hoping that neither of the people at this crime scene were going to turn out to be suspects. Jealousy's quite the motive.

She rolled her eyes. "Really? You wanna do this now?"

Javi glared.

"It was nothing," Lanie continued in her I-am-trying-to-be-patient voice. "I walked in on him and Kate in the changing area."

"Yeah?"

"She was putting aloe on that sunburned tummy of his. Or so she said."

Javi smirked. "Like he couldn't reach?"

Her face grew serious. "A tattoo wouldn't prove anything, but lack of a tattoo might. Although... oh, my God. Javi, do you think Tyson might have swapped this man out? The way he did you and me?" Lanie thought of the unfortunate woman who'd been made over to look like her, even down to a tat in a very personal place. She got the shivers again.

Javi went a little green, picturing another corpse hanging in a boat: The hapless vic, a carbon copy of himself, eyes glazed, tortured, dead. "If Tyson left this body here to throw us off, where's Castle?" They looked up the hill at Kate. Right now, Jim Beckett was standing with his daughter, and Kate was weeping into his shoulder.

Everything was horrible, as it must be. But for some reason, although Lanie couldn't explain it, everything was better than it might have been. She'd finally worked up the nerve to look at that charred skull, only one of scores she'd seen in the course of her work, yet the most difficult so far. She moved up by the shoulder, leaned down, and looked at the face closely.

She ran her finger along the bridge of the nose. "Huh," she said. "Castle's nose has been broken at least twice, right? But he's never had any work done."

Esposito was trying to make light. "So the man claims..."

"Shut up, Esposito." That was the best thing she could have possibly said. He smiled cautiously, and she continued. "See this? Bridge has been augmented to _look_ broken, but that's not natural for this bone structure, see here? And Kate says he complains about jaw pain sometimes. It's a little crooked."

Ryan said, "You notice it when he smiles."

Espo said, "Sometimes I think Martha dropped him on his head."

Then with a glance for permission from Dinkmeyer, Lanie checked the set of the jaw, swinging it open and shut, examining the fit between teeth.

"Check out the very fine hinge action here."

"Looks straight to me," Ryan smiled.

Lanie made a wordless gesture, and Dinkmeyer handed her a magnifying lens from his kit.

Esposito said, "Didn't I hear you and Castle talking about mercury fillings?"

Ryan perked up. "Yeah. He had all of his replaced a few years ago. Said..." Kevin swallowed. "Said if I got it done too, I'd stop hearing those voices telling me to eat ice cream at 3 a.m..."

Lanie looked at the fillings on the corpse's molars; they were hard to see because of the black smoke stains. "But he's never had veneers."

"Not that I know of." Kevin and Javier glanced at one another, speaking in one voice, and they were down at her side. "What is it?"

Lanie was blinking back tears. "Well, I'm pretty sure this guy has veneers on his front teeth, and enough mercury in his mouth to open a thermometer factory."

Lani's gloved index fingertip wiped away charred tissue on the skull's forehead, above the left eye. "Castle hit his head on a TV when he was little. Chipped his frontal bone. Still has that scar."

Javi laughed. "That's funny, he told me it was a baseball accident when he was eight."

Kevin said, "No way, man. He fell off a horse at summer camp."

With a shaking hand, Lanie handed the magnifier back to Dinkmeyer. "You tell me. Any sign of a 1/2" long vertical dent in the left supraorbital area of this skull's frontal bone?"

Dinkmeyer looked closely and shook his head. "Seems unblemished to me."

He tried to be happy for them, although all he knew for now was that the body was apparently not Richard Castle's, and on that level, his own job had grown that much harder.

Lanie's eyes were wide, and her smile could have raised the Titanic. Kevin didn't even wait for her word, just took off running up the hill toward Kate. Lanie called after him. "I don't know who this John Doe is, but it's not Richard Castle."


	4. Chapter 4

Too Soon Part 4

**Wings of Desire **

_You stumble out of a hole in the ground_

_a vampire or a victim... it depends on who's around  
Stay - U2_

The flare, still burning pink below, revealed a sort of ladder, c-shaped sections of rebar set into the concrete walls of the shaft. Hitching himself through the smoking leaf litter, Rick managed to reach across, grab a bar, and pull himself in with his good arm. His body flopped into the hole, he slammed into the side and dropped down about ten feet, landing on the bad ankle with a yelp of agony. He fell to the ground and found a heavy door that swung into the shaft when he pulled down on the handle. Frantic, he hauled himself through, then rolled away into the tunnel, creeping as far and as fast as he could, but really making it only a few feet. With immense effort he tugged at the thick door, which moved with surprising smoothness despite squawking hinges. He heard an irregular ticking noise, like the sound of an overheated car's engine after you pull over, raise the hood, and swear because you're gonna have to call a tow truck. He finally managed to yank the door almost shut, got out of what he estimated as its sweep path, and curled up in a ball as well as he could, covering his head with his arms.

_**BOOM**_.

The door crumpled out of its frame like a paper bag attacked by a bobcat. The explosion lit up the tunnel, and the shock wave decimated the shaft. Showers of dirt, leaves, broken concrete, dust, and bits of rebar hailed around him. As it was, Rick was half-buried in debris, but he managed to roll out of it and lie back, groaning. He was cut and bruised, a huge rock had bounced hard off his hipbone, his ears ached and rang, and it seemed pretty clear he'd lost some hearing. He could smell burning gas and was at first terrified that carbon monoxide would sink down and make short work of him. But there was definitely positive air flow rushing over him from the other end of the tunnel. The convection was feeding the post-explosion flames, like the barbeque chimney he liked to use on the rare occasions he cooked out. He wondered whether it would be smarter to wait until the car burned out (or exploded again? How many times can a car explode? Had the reserve in the carburetor blown too? Did his Mercedes even have a carburetor? He considered buying an electric car. Maybe one of those Arcimotos. How much car can a person need in New York City? Of course if he and Kate had a baby or two, they'd need room for car seats...) Wait. Wait for what? To crawl? He could barely move. With another, smaller boom, the chimney up to the car was sealed, and the flare's light was extinguished beneath falling debris.

Kate. How long would it take for her to realize he was late? She hadn't expected him for another fifteen or so minutes. Had the 911 call been taken seriously? Had the police caught Rosie/Kelly/whatever the hell her name was? Had anyone seen the car explode?

He then realized there was probably a tuxedoed body nearly identical to his, lying next to his burned-out car. If Kate saw that body...

Rick's heart broke for her, and although he tried like hell to hold the tears back, he cried. He was exhausted and overwhelmed and in pain. The sobs just wracked him, the anger and frustration, the fear, the brother never known of, hated, found, and horribly killed by his own hand. Somehow worst of all, he knew that his Kate was going to have to weather blow after blow. He could do nothing to tell her, or his family, that he was alive, that he was for the moment sort of safe, that they would be all right. He knew that any moment now the love of his life would learn that she'd lost him. She had already lost too much.

Castle imagined her standing there, holding the phone, her face white, no tears, sitting down slowly, taking it in. Another little part of her would die at that moment, would never come back; the trust in the universe they had rebuilt, one little stick man at a time. That part of her made of spring steel, that would hold her up and keep her going until she found him, dead or alive? It would make her revert to how she'd been when they met: brittle, lonely, sharp, and dangerous. And if she couldn't find him, it would turn against her and kill her altogether.

He calmed himself down pretty fast, all things considered. He did have a tiny pragmatic streak, and it reminded him that he'd already lost blood and might be going without water for a while. He felt no shame about his tears. He'd done a lot of reading about the release of stress chemicals. Up there in real life everyone would try to be strong for each other, and they would all shove their pain into the background as much as they could, and go about the task of finding the truth. Maybe the task of finding him, if he was lucky. He wondered what they were thinking. He knew they were already a family, that they would take care of one another. He ached to be of some help. Part and parcel of Richard Castle: the man needed to be needed.

Rick thought about that old Wim Wenders movie, _Wings of Desire_, where angels perched atop a high, pedestaled statue in a grand old city, waiting for people to die. The angels wore trench coats and sometimes had huge wings, other times not. And they would fly down to take the dying in their arms, whisper words of comfort, hold them as soul left body. Rick knew he was no angel, and although he didn't consider himself remotely psychic, he reached out anyway, imagining himself guiding everyone through what he knew, nudging them to search out what he didn't know. He pictured himself not in this stupid tux but a big coat like that angel's, warm and brown and soft, his arms wrapped around Kate's shoulders, giving her strength. He put his hand between her breasts, and palmed his joy of life into her frantically beating heart. And he didn't whisper it. He said it aloud, with all the strength he could muster, the words rumbling deep in his chest, so that she'd feel it with the force of her being. "Kate. My heart is with you, and you know I'm not gone yet. Follow what you know. Follow your heart and find me." He pictured her handing the phone off, pictured the boys and Lanie coming to the crash site with her. Keeping her safe, and focused, and letting her lead when she could. Back to her heart.

And Alexis! God. He knew too well how a parent's murder can emotionally eviscerate a child. He sat his mind down in the big easy chair in the Hamptons house living room, put his arms out and she threw herself into his lap, weeping, rocking, devastated. His arms tightened around her, almost seemed to go through her, and he murmured into her ear. "Now is your time to cry, Pumpkin. You just feel what you feel. Just don't let fear get in your way, OK? There is so much love surrounding you. So many people who will take care of you when you need it. You can believe in them. They won't fail us." He wove his strength into her DNA, he breathed his faith into her lungs and his vision into her sight and his clear thinking into a mind whose brilliance surpassed his own. "You can believe in yourself, in what you know, in what you remember, in what you dream. Help Kate find her happy ending. Don't give up."

Martha. He was so grateful. Not just for the mothering, although he'd only just started to scratch the surface of understanding that. He was grateful that they'd both lived long enough to become friends. He stood next to her, where she leaned against the kitchen island, her knuckles white. She grimly opened a bottle of champagne, was about to pour herself a glass with a shaking hand. He cupped her jaw in his palm, stared into her achingly blue eyes with his own. He spoke softly. "You can wait until we have something to celebrate. You don't need this now." She bowed her head. He placed his other hand over hers, and together they set the empty glass down. "Kate's mother has a saying on her tombstone: _Truth conquers all_. Kate needs to know the truth. Unembellished." He kissed Martha's cheek, leaving a shadow of a smile on her lips. "You can go back to embellishing it again when I'm home."

His mind inventoried all the people he loved, all the people who loved him back, and for each, he felt their sorrow, and returned it with endless waves of love.

Castle found himself standing in flames that he could not feel, except in the heat from his wrist and ankle. He walked out of them to find Kevin Ryan, head bowed, saying a quick prayer as the car still blazed. Javier Esposito was half turned away, a hand rubbing his eyes, the weight of the world on his broad shoulders. Castle knew Esposito would give himself this fleeting moment, hide his grief in gallows humor, then go home and punch a wall or something later, once the case was put to bed. Espo turned to Ryan, and standing together they surveyed the car and the body in stoic silence. Rick imagined spreading his arms wide across both men from behind, grasped their shoulders, and stuck his head between them. "This is as close to a group hug as we're gonna get right now," he said, and perhaps each of them thought the other had said it aloud. Javi and Kevin leaned together very briefly, just bumping elbows. Rick thought to them, "Do you wonder why the car's sunk so deep in the ground?"

Ryan said, "You think there was a bomb in the car?"  
Espo frowned. "Why?"

"It's practically a blast crater. See how the front end's sunk down? That's not just the tires melting, it almost looks like it's buried itself."  
"Might just be the angle."  
Ryan turned to the sheriff. "Excuse me, do you have a soils expert on call?"

Esposito added, "Might be helpful to get records about the land hereabouts, in case we need to do a search."

"It's Sunday afternoon. We'll have to open up the hall of records and get a clerk on it," the sheriff replied. "I'll get right on that."

"Yeah, you do that," Castle murmured. "Something odd about this hole in the ground." He smiled. He knew the records were there. He'd read them himself, twelve years ago, researching for his first romance novel, _Deep in Desire__ by Claire Sainte Victoire. _The back cover blurb: _There are many secrets lurking in the Long Island countryside. Sylvia Atkinson stumbled across one that would either kill her or make her stronger. Is Cade Masters a folk hero or a traitor? A mensch or a monster? Sylvia must decide whether to continue skimming the surface of life or let herself fall... Deep In Desire! _

Rick had spent many summer hours combing both the countryside and the local historical libraries. A system of islands off the Atlantic coast was prime smuggling territory. Everything from people to weapons to exotic pets to drugs had been stashed away. During the depression, moonshiners had plied their trade. Later, marijuana was grown in the warm, humid summers and in foil-lined basements with grow lights. More recently meth was cooked, and there were even a few S&M "dungeons" catering to the rich and paranoid. This particular hole had been utilized for several different purposes. Originally dug out from a root cellar, it had housed escaped slaves, and in the 1930s, beer had been brewed, a speakeasy run in the basement of the old estate house that had once been connected to the tunnel. In the 1950s the owner had gotten the idea of building a bomb shelter then run out of one or more factors: motivation, money, or concrete, or paranoia, or time, or maybe their back give out. It was here that Rick – writing as Claire Sainte Victoire - set the scene where Sylvia realizes that folk singer Cade is using this rural farm as a way-station for draft dodgers to escape into Canada. Since Tyson rear-ended Kate's car the year before, Rick had the mental equivalent of foxholes everywhere. This was just the one he'd wound up in. He hadn't counted on being run off the road. But better here than barreling off to dusty death with Tyson.

If anything, Rick felt that Lanie was his trump card. His drifting mind found her already on the crime scene too, hurrying from Esposito's car. Rick imagined himself with wings, and that worked nicely. He didn't have to flap them, just sort of raised them and floated up, like the Viridian Lamp superhero. He set down lightly with a smirk, stopped her at the top of the hill. _"It's such a shame about the dress, I never got to see it on you."_

She sighed, thinking, _"You would have just stared at my assets anyway, you bad man."_

"_You'll want to change your shoes. Broken ankles really do suck." _She went back to the car, dug through her suitcase. He held her hand as they hurried back to the crime scene together. She did most of the talking, thinking to him as if he were an imaginary friend. _"You know, I liked you from Day One, you big jackass. I knew you and Kate had something special and I swear, I would've had to pull her teeth to get her to admit it. But I've always been on your side, Rick. I'm on your side now."_

He held her elbow, and she waited for Javi to pick his way up the bank to meet her. From this angle they had a pretty good view of the car. The body was, mercifully, hidden from the road. Hidden from Kate.

Castle smiled at Lanie. _"You're gonna figure out that's not me, pretty fast."_

_"If that isn't you, I'm gonna have to deal with some stupid SOB who says you got cold feet and faked your own death. By the way, did you have a prenup?"_

_"Kate made me. And I updated my will, too, you knew that. You all have a little motive for murder in there." _

Lanie's eyes blurred with tears. _"You're a sweet man when you're so inclined. She never wanted your money. In fact, I think it got in the way."_

_"I know,"_ he added. _"But without the books, we never would have found one another."_

The most horrible though crossed Lanie's mind. _"Next book you write should be a cookbook, Richard Castle."_

_"Barbeque?" he snickered._

"Ugh." She spoke aloud, bared her teeth and shook her head. _"Even for a coroner, it's too soon. I'm turning into Perlmutter. Now get out of my brain, Castle, I've got work to do." _

His imagination met up with the rest of him, back down in the dusty darkness. There was nothing he could do but try to send them all psychic love-balls through ten feet of rubble. That, of course, felt completely inadequate, and a surge of rage flared up in him. He spoke aloud to the black unknown. "This is so fucking... _unfair_."

Mephistopheles's voice rumbled around in the back of his head. _"Yeah, Rick, like life is fair."_

He could have sworn he heard Kate's voice. _"Even the worst days have the possibility for joy." _

Mephistopheles smirked,_ "Even the best days have the possibility of despair."_

"Aw, shut up," Rick groaned."I did not need that thought."

Meph said, "You stop thinking, you die, Rickyboy."

He really didn't want to die yet. You make your luck. He'd made a lot of luck, and much of that had been a combination of curiosity and gratitude. When he wanted to learn about something, he went all out. And when he received something, he either gave back in kind or paid it forward. Was there really such a thing as karma, and if so would he be on the fratricide end of the karmic spectrum, or the disarming-a-nuclear-bomb end? He wondered how much help the mayor might be, or Judge Markway or even his legions of detail-obsessed fans. He wondered whether the local police in their infinite wisdom would keep the crash under wraps, or put out an APB for kidnapping. He wondered if anyone would come forth with tips, if anyone would offer help, if Kate would accept help, if the locals would accept help from the Twelfth. And if / when the crime came to be considered a kidnapping, how would things go with the FBI?

What a mess.

Speaking of mess, he murmured, "I am a mess." He tried to sit up. His bruised hip ached, so he had to rock over onto one side a little. His right hand was useless, also swollen. His ankle was swelling tightly into his dress sock, and although it was too dark to see more than a little, the sock was torn and sticky with drying blood, but nothing too fresh: not a compound fracture, then, just a cut over the sprain. Insult to injury. Sprained, broken, what's the difference if you can't stand on it? He leaned painfully against the concrete wall and removed his bow tie painfully and wrapped his gunshot wrist with it painfully using left hand and teeth. Feeling like between the musty smell and the painful pain he could barely breathe, he unfastened his top three shirt buttons painfully and I guess pain will just painfully reduce a writher, I mean writer, to just painful overusing of adverbs that would literally or perhaps virtually make Stephen King scream and turn in his grave although he's not even dead yet and _am I hallucinating or do I hear music?_

Truth is, he did not hear music. His ears were still ringing from the explosion, and he wasn't awake. He'd passed out leaning against the wall. He was far away, in dreamland, an hour later when Lanie and Esposito got into the coroner's van with his brother's body. He was beyond even dreaming at 10:45 pm., never noticing the vibration and dust when the tow truck crew hauled the Mercedes out of its crater. When he came out of a stupor at 11:11 (really!?), he found himself laughing. "Oh, my God, I'm wearing a watch, and it lights up like a motherfucker..." He couldn't push the button with his bad hand. "Son of a bitch!" He couldn't push it with his tooth and still read the time. "Thun of a bith, come on!" He tried pressing it against uneven rock surfaces until a tiny piece jutted in and the watch illuminated.

He imagined a tiny town crier waving a blue lantern. "_11:16 pm, and the tunnel is dark. Except for the eyes. Run Away." _

There were eyes... maybe 200 tiny, paired pinpoints of light... looking down on him from the ceiling. He had a feeling they weren't angels.


	5. Chapter 5

**A note to my darling readers: I am so grateful for your reviews, follows, feedback, and encouragement. It's gonna get dark, and when the going gets dark, the dark get going. Darkest before the dawn. Something like that. I will not tell you what's going to happen, but I will say that I greatly admire both justice and happy endings, as long as they are earned. Here's where we have to earn them. **

**Stay with me! As always, constructive criticism is welcome. xo**

* * *

**Sometimes You Can't Make It (On Your Own)**

_I know that we don't talk  
I'm sick of it all  
Can - you - hear - me - when - I -  
Sing, you're the reason I sing  
You're the reason why the opera is in me..._

Where are we now?  
I've still got to let you know  
A house still doesn't make a home  
Don't leave me here alone...

And it's you when I look in the mirror  
And it's you that makes it hard to let go  
Sometimes You Can't Make It On Your Own** – U2**

Teresa and Jim watched the bride and Kevin Ryan burst out of the house in a dead run down the long gravel driveway. The last car by the main road was the white Rolls, and it was blocking all the other vehicles, poised to leave first and carry the bride and groom to their B&B that night. Ryan was talking to Kate. "Look, let me handle this," he said. The limo driver, Bob Nutter, was napping in the limo's back seat. Ryan hauled the door open and the driver jumped awake.

Ryan cried, "NYPD! We have an emergency. I need to commandeer your car."

Nutter stared at him. "Sir, I'd be happy to drive you wherever -"

"Get out," Kate said.

The driver said, "Jeez, lady, I didn't sign up for this."

She reached in, collared him, and roared, "THEN GET OUT OF THE CAR."

Nutter clambered out. "If you think I'm gonna let you take a $50,000 antique car for a joy ride, then..."

Ryan finished the sentence for him: "Then she's absolutely correct." Ryan punched him. Nutter fell back on the grass with a grunt, cradled his jaw with his left hand, and produced the keys with his right.

Jim assisted Kate into the Rolls passenger seat, helping her gather her skirts, pulling her shoulder belt out at length and buckling her in like a child before she could even protest. "You two be careful," he admonished, and shut the door, making sure she was safely inside. "Katie, I'll be right behind you." The Rolls peeled out and rumbled away down the road toward the Montauk Highway. Jim spoke briefly with his sister, leading her to his car as he talked. He said, "T, can you hold down the fort here? I can't let Katie do this by herself again."

Teresa nodded. "Just be careful, Jim."

"I don't know how long we'll be gone, but I do know Martha's going to need some help."

"Whatever she asks." Teresa hugged him briefly. "You can do this, Jim."

Jim nodded. "_Hell_, yes, I can do this." He smiled wryly at his sister. "And yes, I'll be careful." It occurred to both of them as Jim drove away that they had no idea what had actually befallen Castle, and horrible ideas raced in their minds. Teresa had only met Rick the night before at the rehearsal dinner, although she'd read a couple of his books. She liked him, and she knew Katie loved him, and that was enough for her. Her heart sank.

Teresa watched as Esposito and Lanie ran for his car. Esposito stopped a moment and pressed a little key into Teresa's hand. "Do me a favor, make sure Perroni's calmed down before you uncuff him, ok?"

"Perroni?"

"The rent-a-cop." Espo chuckled. "Tried to make the bride stay here." He paused a second. "Uh, which way?"

Teresa pointed after the other vehicles. Lanie cried, "Hurry up!" Esposito said "Thanks," and they took off.

Teresa looked down at the limo driver and offered him a hand up, but he got up on his own, rubbing his neck. "What the hell happened?"

She said, "Let's go get you some ice." She gestured to a flower-decked bench on the porch. "Sit here." She went to the fridge, found a bag of frozen blueberries, and tossed it to Nutter, who cradled it agains his swelling jaw. Teresa then went back into the house and found Officer Perroni stretched out cold and handcuffed on the dressing room floor, his eye blackened. Teresa hunted around, looking for Martha, whom she'd only met briefly. She didn't seem to be anywhere. Finally Teresa knocked on one of the bathroom doors. "Ms. Rogers, are you in there?"

There was a small noise – possibly a medicine chest closing - and a quiet, throaty voice. "Is there further news?"

"I don't know. I'm Jim's sister. Teresa Beckett? He asked me to check on you."

The door opened. Martha had splashed cold water on her face and reapplied her lipstick. "Where is Jim?"

"He followed Katie and her friends..." Teresa indicated the general direction.

Martha's eyes looked all the bluer for being bloodshot. "I want to go... but I'd be useless there."

Teresa nodded. "So would I." She offered a hand. "Come on out."

Martha followed her, looking dazed. "Where is Alexis?"

"Let's go find her. Perhaps we can be of some use after all." She escorted Martha into the living room and guided her into a chair. "I'll have a look around for her."

Martha gave her a grateful smile. "Perhaps she's holed up in one of the other powder rooms." Teresa nodded and set off. It was a big house.

Meredith ran into the living room through the French doors, panting. Feet pounded down the steps: first Kate, then Ryan, then shortly after, Lanie and Esposito, hurtling out the front door without so much as a glance at her. Shrieking, "Alexis? Baby?" Meredith circulated around the house, but there was no sign of her daughter, although she did spy Officer Perroni lying on the floor in handcuffs. _"Hmmm. Intriguing."_ But then Alexis appeared as if from nowhere, running to her mother, voice high and scared, unselfconsciously using the word she hadn't uttered in a decade. "Mommy!"

Meredith threw her arms around her daughter. "What happened, sweetheart? Is Daddy all right?"

Alexis was in tears. Meredith started to cry, too, just by osmosis, and looked around to see who might be able to give an explanation (or who might be watching her have an epic breakdown). She dotted Alexis' face and hair with kisses. "It's all right, Sweetie. Mommy's here."

To Meredith's annoyance, Gina Griffin Cowell (formerly Castle), of all people, stepped in silently, staring at the two of them. Waiting for it. At Teresa's behest, she'd checked over the rent-a-cop and brought him ice for his eye, where Kate's fist had connected. She said tersely, "Rick's been in an accident. His car went off the road about five miles from here."

Alexis said, "Kate got a call. Then Officer Perroni came in and tried to stop her from leaving." The girl indicated the supine officer and almost summoned a giggle. "For her own safety! She told him to get out of her way. He tried to cuff her. She knocked him out cold and had those things on him so fast..." Mother and child left the dressing room and headed down the stairs. Gina bent over the officer again, patted his cheek. She left the ice bag near him so he'd see it when he came to.

Meredith wailed. "Oh, my poor baby!" She held Alexis so tightly the girl nearly choked. "My god. This is terrible. What are we going to do? Is he all right?"

Alexis' voice was muffled. "I don't know. We don't – Detective Bec- Kate – they're gone, they left." She added in a small, miserable voice, "They wouldn't let me come with them."

Gina had caught up, and they all continued through the great room toward the kitchen. "Honey, there's not much you can do right now, and maybe it's better..."

Interrupting, Meredith frowned and took Alexis' face between her hands. "We'll just see about that. You're his _daughter_." She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her contacts. "And I'm your _mother_. We should be there."

Alexis said, "Mom, don't. Kate -"

"Sweetie, if he's dying, you'll never forgive yourself."

Gina knocked Meredith's phone out of her hand. It went spinning across the tiled floor and under a chair. "If he's _dying_?"

Meredith gasped. "What was that for?"

Gina was shorter than Meredith, but her little spine of steel was even straighter than usual. "Really? Listen to me, you self-absorbed bitch. Alexis and Martha need our support. Here. Not with you rubbernecking and playing Greek Chorus at..."

"But I am being supportive. How would you know, you never even wanted kids."

Gina restrained herself, but her tone was dangerous. "Where were you when Alexis was kidnapped? Where were _we_ when Rick was framed for murder? Did you ever once think what Rick might want in a situation like this? What Kate might need to get through this fucking nightmare?"

"Oh, like you're so concerned about _Kate_. If he dies his book sales will go nuts. That's all you care about, is riding his ass to get more money out of him."

Alexis stared at the two women in horror. "Please, don't do this."

"I don't give a flying crap about his books!" Gina cried. "He never even needs to publish another title! We'll be making cash off the residuals and interest till the the Zombie Apocalypse, and he'd be just as happy living in a trailer in Poughkeepsie."

Meredith scoffed. "I sure wouldn't, neither would you."

Gina's eyes narrowed. "I don't know whether _you_ ever even loved him. But _I still do._ But I've accepted that Kate's the _only_ one who's ever made him really happy. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

"_My_ daughter makes him happy. Kate's the goddamn drama queen, not me, and I've mopped his tears off my shoulder more than once for her bullshit."

"I don't think those were tears, Meredith, and I doubt it was your shoulder."

Alexis began, "_Kate's_ a drama queen..."

Meredith was fuming. "If he does live through this, give Kate a month before she finds some reason to make him miserable again."

But Gina wasn't done hollering at Meredith. "By the time you were done screwing with his heart, he barely trusted me to pick up a carton of eggs at the store."

"At least I'm not driving Alexis out of her own home like Kate is."

Alexis grabbed an empty wine glass and slammed it down hard into the kitchen sink, where it shattered against the cold stainless. _"God, Mother, will you shut up!"_

Meredith grabbed Alexis' arm, too hard. "How can you turn on me like this? I might be all you have left." Alexis twisted easily, wrenching free, and backed away in dismay.

"For everybody's sake, I sure hope not." Gina shoved Meredith in the shoulders, herding her back to the French doors. "Grow the fuck up."

Meredith fell down on her ass. Her shiny dress split, and beads skittered around on the warm pine floorboards.

Silence fell over the room a moment. From the corner came a quiet chuckle. Martha was sitting in the shadows, still in the easy chair. Her eyes were streaming tears. Alexis ran to her. "Oh, Grams, I'm so sorry! We were just... This is so awful, we're all so freaked out."

Martha dabbed her eyes on a tissue and waved her granddaughter off gently. She smiled at Gina, who had placed an embarrassed hand over her mouth. "Gina, darling, that was _almost_ worth the price of admission." She rose slowly out of her chair, and looked out the back door, across the rows of chairs and the flower-decked altar area to the ocean. Clear blue sky. "It would have been a perfect day."

For the first time in her life, Alexis thought her grandma a little too thin. Frail. Martha's voice was small and shaky. "We need to make sure one hundred eighty-seven people and one sex doll get back on their buses and go home."

Meredith played the nobility card. "I'll do it." Alexis helped her up off the floor. She smoothed her skirt, and more pearly beads scattered. "I was born to deal with an audience."

Still gazing outside, Martha didn't even turn to face Meredith. "This is not about _you_. For once." She straightened her shoulders, her voice firm again, "Besides, you've popped a seam. You need to change."

Meredith simpered, "I..." Meredith blinked. She looked genuinely bereft, deflated in the face of Martha's calm dignity. She quavered, "I don't know what to do."

Martha continued, more gently. She knew that in her own shallow and narcissistic way, Meredith had loved Rick as much as she was capable. "Slip into something more comfortable. Clear out the sink, fill the dishwasher, and take out the trash. We need some semblance of order."

She turned to Gina, placing a weary, affectionate hand on the younger woman's shoulder. "You've managed parties and events for hundreds of people. I know _you_ can handle a crowd," she glanced sidelong at the chastened Meredith, "Without turning it into a riot."

Gina swallowed and nodded. "Thank you, Martha."

They hugged, and Martha leaned on her a moment. "Thank _you_, Gina. I don't think I can -" her voice shook, and she stepped back, pressing her hands over her eyes. "I'll stay by the phone." She sat back down in the easy chair. "Alexis, might I have a glass of lemonade, please?"

Alexis nodded, and went outside to the drink station where five-gallon glass dispensers of water, ice tea, red hibiscus punch, and lemonade sparkled, the yellow lemon slices translucent in the sun. She poured a couple of tumblers and watched Gina talking to the caterers. She withdrew into the house again to find Kate's Aunt Teresa talking to Martha.

Teresa, who had sat unnoticed as the catfight erupted, had watched Martha and Alexis in silent admiration. She said, "I'll have the caterers pack up food in to-go containers for your guests, but keep some of it aside. This place might be overrun with hungry officers for the next few days. And possibly the press as well."

Martha nodded. "Thank you, Teresa."

Teresa stepped outside, passing Alexis with a gentle smile. She called 911. "My name is Teresa Beckett. I'm at the Castle estate, and while there is no immediate emergency here, we'd like an ambulance. It seems that Officer Perroni has hit his head. He's resting comfortably. You know the address?" she smiled. "Thank you. We'll be expecting someone. And may I ask for no sirens? We have a stressful situation here as it is."

Alexis approached Martha with the drinks, gave her a kiss on the cheek, and they toasted one another silently, downing the lemonade in one long draught, the horrible dryness of stress somewhat relieved by such a simple thing as lemons, sugar, and water.

"Better," Martha whispered.

"Could hardly be worse," Alexis replied. She took the empty tumblers and put them in the dishwasher. She then wrapped her hand in damp paper towels, and cleaned up the contained explosion of broken glass in the sink.

Meredith reappeared a moment later, wearing a bright sundress and flat sandals. She wordlessly set about collecting glasses, appetizer plates, and whatever mess lay around the house from wedding preparations. She was sulking, slamming things around a little more than was strictly necessary. Alexis' stony expression matched her own.

Finally, Meredith said, "Aren't you going to apologize?"

"No, Mother, I'm not. Are you?"

They continued to work in silence. Martha laid her head back in the easy chair and sighed, waiting for the phone to ring.

Gina took her heart in her hands and asked the catering staff to help gather everyone who was milling around the yard or killing time – ugh, Rick would have made some stupid pun there - on the beach.

She gazed out over the ocean as if to find strength from it, as Martha had done moments before. Rick's eyes were that shade of blue sometimes, water mixed with sky. Had been? Was he still alive? Her heart ached for herself, for him, for his family, even for Kate. She'd known and liked Rick for almost twenty years; shared days in bed and nights at work; come to love him. She'd stayed up all night reading his stories; celebrated his triumphs; and nursed him through bad reviews, contract negotiations, and writer's block. They had tried mightily, and failed, to build a marriage together. Despite their ups and downs, their romantic disappointment and their friction over practical matters, they were dear friends. Otherwise their business partnership could never have worked. He was so good with the words. She knew them when she saw them, but putting them in the right order was rightfully his job.

Heart pounding, Gina turned back to almost two hundred anxious faces. Over the years he had gratefully trusted her to deal with his adoring public. Here at the wedding, this sector of the public adored him most of all. A trickle of sweat slipped down her spine and pooled at the waistband of her coral linen skirt.

She tried to keep the announcement simple. "Richard Castle's been in a serious accident. We don't know yet just how bad it is. Kate and her– her team are at the crash site now." She took a deep, shaky breath. As she spoke, the crowd's reactions ranged from stoicism to quite a few people – including a few police officers and Judge Markway – in tears. Dr. Perlmutter – whom Gina didn't know – put his his face down against the doll's shoulder a moment, hiding his face in her caramel-blonde, wavy hair.

Gina found it hard to look at anyone, their pain mirroring her own. "We'd like to ask you to return home. Please, uh..." She faltered a moment. To her surprise, Judge Markway stepped out of the crowd and took a place at her side. She barely knew him outside of Rick's old poker parties, a few fundraisers and occasional cocktails. Rick and Kate had asked him to officiate at the wedding, and he'd gladly accepted.

Markway looked out at everyone with his sad eyes, cleared his throat, then spoke firmly by virtue of long practice. "We'd like to ask you to keep Rick, Kate, and their family in your prayers, and keep this situation private until the police know more. The crash is being treated as a crime scene, and while everyone here..." his eyes swam. "Everyone here wishes them happiness, Kate and the rest of his family may also be at risk."

He took Gina's arm, and looked over at her. She smiled a little in gratitude for someone to lean on, even for a moment. She added, "I know that if Rick could be here now he'd – he'd be so glad that you all came. Came to see him and Kate on what should have been the happiest day of their lives. I know the family can continue to count on your love and support. I'm sure everyone wants to step in and help somehow, but the police are still assessing the situation, and we promise to... to keep you posted." She finished with a raw whisper that even Perlmutter's date could hear in the awful silence. "Thank you."

***  
Phone calls were made. Because Rick Castle knows someone who knows someone.

Once Gina had recovered her equilibrium, she called Paula Haas at home and told her the news, holding the phone away from her ear in anticipation of her screaming. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. Gina just waited, silently, knowing it would pass.

Paula went through the litany. "Omigawd. Poor Alexis! Poor Kate. Is Martha ok? She's gonna have a heart attack. This is awful. Did they find a body in the car?"

"God, Paula!"

"Come on, I'm in the dark here. And it's not like I never slept with him. We were fuck-buddies for a while there."

Gina face-palmed. She didn't know whether to laugh or cry. "Paula."

"I was so stupid to let him go." Paula was definitely crying now.

"Oh, come on. You never really had him. Neither did I."

"He was so goddamn sweet." _(Sniffle. Honk.)_

"Paula. We don't even know if he's dead or alive."

"Oh." Paula said. "Omigawd, Gina, sales are gonna go through the frickin' roof."

"Sometimes I hate you."

"Yeah, yeah, everybody does, but it goes with the territory. You want me to put a press release together?"

"I want you to do a couple of different versions, and just be ready."

"For what?"

"Like I said, we don't know if he's dead or alive. We don't know if it was an accident or random road rage or premeditated. He may have just wandered away into the woods, he might have died in the wreck, he might have been kidnapped..." Gina's voice rose to an almost frantic pitch, unknowingly echoing not only Kate Beckett's thoughts, but everyone else's as well. But here's where she diverged: "And in about twenty minutes, some _idiot_ will tweet about it, and then we'll have helicopters all over the place, and..." Just thinking it left her feeling a bit panicked.

"Oh, Honey. Feeding frenzy." Paula's voice might have been sympathetic, but Gina could tell she'd gotten over the shock quickly, as Paula always did when she'd been drinking mudslides and watching reruns of The Nanny.

"Yeah. So I need you to be our firewall, ok? Hit the presses before they hit you."

"I'll do what I can. Jeez. Gina, What do you want me to say?"

"Put it up on the web site, hit Reuters and AP and Page Six. Confirm there's been an accident, give no details, ask for the family's privacy in this time of crisis. Then go at them from an anonymous angle. Make nebulous comments about 'and did you hear that new thing about Bradgelina?' Hint at some insider-info tabloid tips."

"I hear a certain heiress is paying a visit to the Hamptons. That must be what the fuss is about, right?"

"Perfect! It's like throwing a stick for a retriever. Hit all the usual tabloids... Enquiring Mindless, Peep-hole, User, the Glob, Weak World Newts... Nothing verifiable, but juicy. We want this situation to come and go as fast as possible in the public eye."

"Bada bing, baby. We can neither confirm nor deny. Anything else?"

"I can't just sit around here and do nothing. Can you call Luisa and Eileen and Moser in? I want them to start going through Rick's social media stuff, and fan-fiction pages as well. The cops will want someone familiar with the sites to check for any clues or creeps. And we get to dig out the current crop of weird letters."

"What, you're a detective now?"

"Remember what happened when Beckett pulled Rick in for questioning that first time? Also when Rick was framed for murdering that poor girl. The police were all over us."

Paula blew her nose with a loud honk. "You've been reading too much Nikki Heat."

Gina sighed. "Not really. Truth to tell, I stopped reading halfway through page 105 of the first book in the series. I let Luisa ghost-edit them for me, read her notes, and stay away from the steamy stuff."

"Ohmigawd, Honey, I felt the same way when he wrote that bodice-ripper about the folk-singing underground railroad guy... You know that love scene in the tunnel? I mean, he described my tits to a tee."

"Just make sure nothing else gets ripped today, especially you. I need you on your toes, so sober up. See you around 7 pm." Gina hung up with a sigh. Rick had ghost-written a couple of awful romance novels under the name Claire Sainte Victoire, during a contract dispute with Black Pawn. At least she assumed they were awful: she hadn't read them on principal. He'd been unfaithful – taken them to another publisher! - noting "Since the money's going toward Meredith's alimony, you can either put up with it or get used to eating ramen three times a day."

Judge Markway called another local judge, asking him to keep the avenues open for quick warrants as they became necessary. This involved a minor golf game interruption, but the local judge owed him a favor, and it was no big deal. They made a game date for the following morning. Markway was quietly hoping his services might still be needed locally. He loved Rick and he liked Kate. He'd seen too many bad people get away with murder, and too many good people suffer, and it pained him to realize that this wedding might never happen. Then he headed off to the B&B he'd booked himself for the long weekend, and made another date with a bottle of single malt and a good book.

The Mayor phoned Captain Victoria Gates at the Twelfth Precinct. Gates, in turn, called Sheriff Kloskins, and even though they were strangers, he could hear distress masked in her firm voice. "I know you've got this, Sheriff, but if you need anything from the Twelfth Precinct – if you need volunteers to help search, additional resources of _any_ kind... don't hesitate. We have people standing by ready to help."

Sheriff Kloskins demurred. "At this point we're looking at evidence and trying to figure out exactly what happened. You'll be first on my list. Can I borrow Esposito, Ryan, and Parrish for a few days, Ma'am?"

Gates overlooked her preference for 'sir'. "None of them were expected back until Tuesday anyway. I'll call the coroner's office and let Dr. Parrish's supervisor know the situation. It won't be a problem. Please let them all know."

Kloskins said, "There's another forensics guy on the scene now... I hear his name's Perlmutter. He took a cab out here. Can you ask to have him returned to the city? He insists on helping, but... frankly, he's creeping everyone out."

Gates sighed. "I understand." She paused. "Did he bring his doll to the crime scene?"

"Yeah. And she keeps lookin' at me."

Gats shuddered. "I ran into them once at the grocery store. Gave me the willies."

Victoria Gates made more phone calls: first to the supervising coroner, then to all hands on a volunteer basis, to stand by if needed. She drew the blinds in her office, locked the door, and sobbed like a baby for three minutes. Then she put it aside, fixed her eyeliner, and with a scowl that would vulcanize rubber, she sought out the number for Black Pawn Publishing. Luisa Sanchez, Gina's assistant, picked up on the second ring. Luisa was already done crying over the man who'd made sure her holiday bonus was increased 5% every year. She was mad as hell, and ready to help.

Gates had Karpowski phone Mr. Castle's building manager to tell him the situation. Let him know that there might be unusual activity around the loft, and if anything at all happened out of the ordinary, to call the police. The manager said, "Eduardo, the doorman, he was at the wedding. He called me from the bus, said they passed the crash site. The bus is high up, you know, and the folks on the driver's side saw the Rolls pulled over, and Miss Beckett standing there watching them put the fire out. In her wedding dress. Everyone was just devastated."

Karpowski said, "Excuse me, can I put you on hold for just a sec?"

"Sure."  
She pressed the button and kicked over her trash can with a string of expletives. The entire 12th Homicide turned and looked at her gravely. She glared around at them. "Don't mind me. I'll tell ya later." She picked up the line again. "Sorry to keep you holding, sir. I'll make sure we get extra eyes on the building, just in case."

His voice was rough. "Mr. Castle's a real good guy. I hope he pulls through ok."

Karpowski nodded at the phone. "Me too, sir. Thanks." She hung up and put her face in her hands. Gates told her to take a break.  
***

Around 5 pm, Gina checked out with Martha, Alexis, and Aunt Teresa, whom they had invited to stay. "I know this might sound weird," Gina said, "but I have to go back to the city to do damage control."

Teresa smiled a little mischievously, remembering the catfight. "You're Richard's other ex-wife?"

Gina nodded. "And his friend." They shook hands.

"Teresa Beckett."

Gina smiled politely, then she hesitated. "Unfortunately, I'm also his publisher and... he has a lot of fans. Some of them are harmless, some of them are a little bit nuts, and a very few have proven to be dangerous." She pulled out a business card. "Alexis, honey, I know I'm probably not on your speed-dial anymore. But..."

Alexis raised her eyebrows kindly. "Actually, you are. Sometimes you're the only person I can trust to nag Daddy when he's on the road." They exchanged a smile.

Teresa reached out a hand for Gina's card. "I'm retired now, but I used to work in marketing and public relations. I'll refer any press to you if they think the police aren't releasing enough information. Otherwise, no comment."

Gina nodded. "Thanks. And, please, if Captain Gates, or Kate, if anyone needs help, has questions, they'll have Black Pawn's full cooperation. My staff's already on it."

Alexis hugged Gina, and Martha put her arms around both of them. Meredith stomped by, pouting, with a full bag of trash on the way to the garage where the bins were kept. Slamming that old bag into the bin felt really, really good.

When she came back in, Gina was holding Meredith's overnight bag. "You're coming with me."

Meredith's mouth formed a hard line. "No way in hell." She looked over at Alexis and was shocked at her daughter's folded arms and stubborn pout.

"It's either with me or on the bus," Gina said.

Alexis tried to smile at Meredith. "I'll be all right, Mom. I'll be in touch if anything... You know." Her chin trembled. "Please."

Meredith looked around at the mix of repressed emotions on everyone's faces: anger, irritation, annoyance, confusion, and below that, fear and grief. Meredith felt the same, but without an audience, she had no idea what to do with it. She threw up her hands in defeat and turned to Gina. "Clearly I'm not wanted here."

Nobody argued the point. She kissed Alexis gently on the cheek, and touched Martha's arm, felt the older woman shaking with exhaustion under her fingers, then took her bag from Gina. "All right, let's go."

5.2 miles away and twelve feet down, Rick Castle peered up into the darkness, pressing down on his watch light switch once more, just to be sure what he saw.  
"Hey there, little guys," he croaked. "Aren't you stinky."  
When he was small, his fascination with all things Halloween had led him to learn everything he could about bats. As an adult, his first charitable donation had been to Dr. Merlin Tuttle's organization, Bat Conservation International. Although his favorite bat was currently the Gambian Epauletted Fruit Bat, those adorable little _megachiroptera_ cream-puffs live in Africa. He knew enough about the locals to guess these were insect-eating microchiropterans, probably Little Brown Bats. Unless rabid, they were harmless to humans, and if he'd been worried about mosquitoes before, that was no longer a concern. These bats had probably had a terrible fright based on the explosion, but they seemed pretty calm, now. They'd probably been watching him sleep for a while and judged him unlikely to be a threat. They were right. He'd actually turned down an offer of barbequed fruit bat in Guam, although he had tried tarantula and found it rather like shrimp. With effort, he lit his watch up again. None of them seemed to be foaming at the mouth. He smiled and thought, _"It's the little things."_

He'd bought bat guano once through the mail to use in ill-advised high-nitrogen gardening experiments. Bat guano is dark gray-brown, granular and somewhat glittery when dry, sparkling with the undigested exoskeletons and wings of thousands of bugs. And it stinks like the worst kind of old pee, like when you get back from a 3 weeks' vacation and realize the last person using the bathroom forgot to flush. In fact it was the smell of the guano, not the pot plants themselves, that once tipped off a building super about the little farm Rick had started in the basement. That got the Rodgers family evicted, but had Rick only known, the super kept the plants and made himself $600 extra in cash that year, before he got arrested himself for growing and selling. So in the long run, Rick dodged a bullet. Had he been caught selling homegrown pot, there would have been no way he would ever have been allowed to follow Beckett, even though he was only fourteen at the time of his ill-fated farming experiment.

It occurred to Rick that the smell could have been worse. He sniffed the air again and remembered that somewhere at the other end of the tunnel, there had to be access to outside, allowing the powerful draft that had ripped through. Perhaps the bats had come and gone through both ends before the explosion, but for now, they were going to have to do with one entrance until someone dug the car out and wondered why there was concrete lining a big hole in the ground. His ears still ringing, he couldn't hear the bats' high clicks and chitters, nor the soft flutter of their wings. The soft bluish light of his watch caught no more than a blur of movement heading down the tunnel, away from the blast site. If he got moving, he might be able to make his way above ground. "Carpe tunnel," he quipped grimly.

He started to move and was seized with blinding pain. This was going to be harder than he'd thought: his right wrist shot to bits, his hand swollen, his damaged knee still not fully recovered in the fourteen months since his skiing accident, his hip aching from a stone bruise, his left ankle sprained... basically his upper left quadrant was the only thing not hurting him. Having been to too many weddings, he had insisted (despite its 'ruining the line of his pants') on each male in the wedding party carrying a 16" Pima cotton pocket handkerchief. Pulling it out, he folded it halfway into a triangle bandanna. Using his left hand and his teeth, it took him ages to tie its ends and get it placed properly as a dust mask over his mouth and nose. He hitched along a few painful feet through the piled bat poo, a layer of damp, ammonia-fuming crud frosting the crumbling layer below. The colony hadn't been there that long, so the guano was only an inch or so deep at worst, but moving through it – and he couldn't exactly get around it – left him choking and gasping. He couldn't even put his head down to rest. The damp guano felt like it was eating at his skin, stinging mercilessly on his numerous cuts.

He sighed, and then struck with a thought, he grinned wildly, misquoting Christopher Marlowe's "Faust":

"_Are these the bats that launch'd a thousand shits, _

_and burned my skin while bruis'ed was my ilium?" _

Giggling, a little hysterical, he hitched another foot or so further and wiped his eyes with the back of his filthy jacket sleeve. His giggle turned to something like a sob. His left triceps cramped as he dragged himself another few inches. He stopped to raise his head for a breath and gritted,

"Damn you, Marlowe."


	6. Chapter 6

Trigger alert: suicidal thoughts, angst, and despair.

But it gets better, and there are Very Good Dogs. You'll be ok.

**Too Soon Part 6**

**Going To the Dogs**

_I have kissed honey lips  
Felt the healing in her fingertips  
It burned like fire  
This burning desire  
I have spoke with the tongue of angels  
I have held the hand of a devil  
It was warm in the night  
I was cold as a stone  
But I still haven't found what I'm looking for - U2_

A news helicopter circled over the crash site, zoomed in on the side of the road and the nearly-extinguished flames, the preliminary discoveries and the bride. The reporter, relentlessly perky in a _"WSHT All News All the Time"_ windbreaker, said, "We're in the Hamptons, hovering over the site where a solo car jumped the curb and is currently engulfed in flame. The car allegedly contained local auth... hey, is this thing on?" She heard an intense screech of feedback in her headphones, as did the pilot and cameraman.

"We've lost signal," the pilot said. "I need to get this thing back to the pad..."

"Why?"

"Power glitch." His face had gone white. "Probably nothing serious, but make sure you're strapped in." Hastily the pilot returned to base and the news crew disembarked. When the cameraman reviewed his footage, he found that some kind of power surge had erased the file.

For some reason, over the next 14 hours, a 5.5-mile radius around the area was something of a dead zone for the media, although regular phone transmissions weren't disrupted. The local emergency personnel were able to communicate just fine, as was Kate's team. It drove the techs crazy, but nobody ever figured out what was happening. It certainly helped cut down on the feeding frenzy.

So Jackson Hunt, even in secret from five miles away, was good for something after all.

***  
Petros groaned and rubbed his eyes, figuratively speaking, and addressed the white light. "Lord, it's like the opening scene of It's A Wonderful Life out here. What's an angel to do?"

_NOT ALL PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED. MOST PRAYERS ARE ANSWERED NO._

"But..."

_HE HAS TO WRITE HIS OWN ENDING. IT'S WHAT HE DOES._

Castle flitted in and out of conshiz. Consciounsness. Consciousness. He sort of woke up, he thought.

Petros came to him and frowned apologetically. "That's a lot of blood," he said.

Rick glanced down at his hand and found one of his eyes was stuck shut, also with blood. He spat on his sleeve and scrubbed at it a little, working it loose. "At least it dried up," he smiled.

Petros smiled too. "Always on the bright side."

Rick shook his head. "It's dark in here. Why can I even see anything?"

"We're moving faster than the speed of light, so light itself isn't a problem."

"You're giving me a headache."

"Oh, that's a gift you gave yourself. Do you have any idea how long you've been down here, Richard Alexander the Great Edgar Allan Nathaniel Poe Castle Keep on Truckin' in the Free World MisterRodgers and Hammerstein?"

"Ten minutes, three hours, overnight. Forever. Time is relative."

"Exactly," said Petros. "Only in this case, the relative is a psychotic brother who just seriously fucked up your wedding plans."

"That's what brothers are for, right?"

"Wrong, my son. Dead wrong. Your brother was your enemy. Time is your enemy, too."

"Frenemy. Bromeny. Brony. Irony?" And Rick passed out again, for the rest of the chapter, so don't go looking for him someplace you won't find him.

Standing on the curb up above, after Lanie's announcement that the body at hand was not Rick's, Kate was seized by a mix of elation and renewed desperation. "We need to organize a search..." she began. "Fan out..."

Ryan stopped her. "Yes. But you need to go back to the house. You need to change, eat something, get some rest. There's nothing you can do here that can't be done by others, and you look like you're about to pass out."

"Don't you tell me what I _need_." Kate pulled out of her father's grasp and stepped toward Ryan, her face white with desperation, puffed into anger. "Don't you think for a minute I can't handle this."

Sheriff Kloskins had notice the confrontation and stepped up to the plate. "Detective Beckett..." he began.

"Stay out of this!" she blazed.

"Excuse me?" He raised a shaggy eyebrow at her, but his voice was mild. "I just spoke with Captain Gates. She's offered your team at my disposal while we figure out what's going on and determine our course of action. I need all of you at your best, and although I don't know you, I'd say you're not at your best right now."

Kate held back a sob. "Please... I can't..."

Kloskins continued. "The night before our wedding, my wife barely slept. She'd hardly eaten in days. We got in the limo to leave for our honeymoon and she was asleep and drooling on my monkey suit before we even hit the interstate."

Ryan nodded. "Jenny fell asleep in the tub."

Jim put his arm around Kate's shoulders, giving her a squeeze. "Katie, your mother was the same. And you've already had a hell of a time over the last few days."

Kate hesitated. She felt dead on her feet. Dead. What if Castle was actually dead?

Where was his body? Her brain started up again, and Ryan could see the wheels spinning.

He chipped in: "Beckett. We'll find him. You'll be the first to know if we get any sign at all."

She stared down at the car, Lanie and Esposito far below. Esposito had his arms around Lanie, and Kate could tell she was crying. Her heart went out to her courageous friend, who had come through for her so many times and once again stepped up to help. She had to trust them again.

"Ok," she sighed. "I'll be back in three hours."

Kloskins' voice was sharp. "It's 4 pm. If you don't hear from me tonight, be back at dawn. We'll want your eyes on the ground, and those eyes will need to be rested. You understand?"

Ryan was impressed. This genial man had morphed from Barney Miller to Iron Gates' brother-from-another-mother.

Kate nodded. "Dawn." Her heart fell from her breast onto the ground, and she kicked it all the way back to her father's car.

***

Jim talked quietly over the short drive back to the estate. "Katie, I know this feels like too much. I know you feel like you've hit bottom. But you will make it through today, and tomorrow, and the next day, with or without Rick's physical presence in your life."

She was unable to answer him. "_I have nothing left," _she thought.

Jim said, "Right now, you're powerless. It feels like hell, but that's what you need to accept so you can build your strength back up. You will find your way in this. You will get the help you need to get through."

"You really believe that, Dad?" Her voice was hollow.

His eyes were sad, but he smiled a little. "No. They just tell me I have to act as if I believe, and that more will be revealed."

"That's sort of hypocritical," she grumbled, and looked out the window as they approached the driveway. Truth was, at that moment everything felt impossible.

Jim chuckled humorlessly. He'd lost his own wife to violence, and it had nearly destroyed him. He knew that from his daughter's point of view, nothing was workable. "Believe me, I understand, it's made me want to kick things. Doesn't matter. It's just a method for dealing with madness. It works." She said nothing. She knew he needed to hold onto positive thoughts, to belief, to keep his sobriety. But the platitudes drove her a little crazy.

She stalked into the house, not wanting to face anyone. But everyone was there at the door, crowding her. She hugged Alexis and Martha briefly. She wanted to have something more to say than "He wasn't there. There's a body, but it wasn't his."

Alexis nodded. "Lanie called ahead. But I like to hear you say it."

Martha and Alexis clung to her, their weight and desperation bringing up a need to run, a claustrophobia.

Martha's anxious eyes searched hers, and Kate could feel the older woman trembling. "You're sure?"

"They wouldn't let me ID the body, but Lanie knows enough... she says it's not him, and I believe her, all right?" she sighed. "Look, I just need to be alone." She extricated herself, pushed past while Martha and Alexis wept. Teresa hugged Jim/

Jenny bounced the baby joyfully. "See, Sweetie? That's one good thing." Sarah Grace cooed and blew spit bubbles, heartily agreeing.

The bride and groom had intended to stay the night at a local B&B's bridal cottage, making love and noise and promises and messes and plans. Kate thought of going to the B&B by herself, needing to decompress away from prying eyes and pitying voices, but a part of her said, "Stay. It's closer here. This is his place - our place. Part of him is here."

When she'd been locked in for twenty minutes or so, Jim knocked with a tray of food and drinks. "I know you don't want to eat, but you need to," he said. She took the tray, not arguing, and set it aside.

"Would you like company?" His face was furrowed with concern.

"No, Dad. In fact I think everyone should go back to the City." She wanted to be alone. The only person she wanted was Castle, and he was out of reach.

He chuckled humorlessly. "That's not the way it works with these people, Katie. They love you. They love Castle. And this is their home too."

"There's nothing I can do for them here."

"They're here for you anyway. They're here for Rick. They're here for each other. They're family, and you need to accept that. You are not alone anymore."

He was right. Rick and Kate had invited their close circle of family and friends to stay on through Monday, with intention of enjoying the pool and beach while the newlyweds caught a flight to their honeymoon. The house had six bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a study with a double foldaway bed, so there was room for everyone. They stayed because they wanted to help each other. They stayed because they hoped. But for the most part, they stayed because they loved Rick, loved her, loved one another.

"Ok, Dad." She closed her eyes, then tried to give him a convincing smile that utterly failed. "I'm gonna try to eat something, take a nap. Wake me if there's a change, ok?"

He nodded. "Just let us know if you need anything. And Katie? Keep breathing." When she closed the door, he went and found a small chair and his blue book, brought them to the hall next to her door, sat down, and read, waiting.

Kate was seized with restlessness, pacing around the room, seeing nothing in her mind but a flaming car at the bottom of a ravine, the head and shoulders of a burnt body visible beyond its fender. "It's not you. It's not you, Rick. If not... who is it? Where are you?" She was swamped with a rage and a sick despair, breathless and shaking, so scared, sweating. Too much emotion poured into too small a space. She simply could not get through this. Even if Castle lived, if he was all right, she knew the trauma would take its toll on both of them. She was never going to trust anything again, when any moment the world could be torn to pieces around her. Whispering, "_Enough!_" she took her service pistol out of the gun safe, loaded it, and put the barrel under her chin.

She sat on the floor on the soft rug before the fireplace, right where they'd made love so many times since their first visit here together. In a Shakespearean sense, she'd 'died' here many times, as had Rick. The deaths she'd felt here, small yet mind-alteringly pleasurable, had helped heal them both, little by little. Each session of lovemaking better than the last, mending the cracks, smoothing the sharp edges of distrust and disappointment that still sometimes came up as each tried to believe they were worthy of the other. She'd felt so out of place when he brought her here the first time. Intimidated that this house, this place, this beauty was above and beyond her, and that so was Castle, so loving and warm and gentle.

She'd thought that with her walls of glass and stone, she could never be worthy of such a man. Maybe this horrific turn in their lives proved that she wasn't worthy after all, that some kind of fate had decreed they could never have what they loved and wanted together. And now perhaps he was literally beyond her, or far away beyond a search and a fight and long recovery, again. _Not again. No more of this. I'm too tired. I'm sick of caring._ And all she had to do was pull the trigger...

After the body had been bagged, Dr. Dinkmeyer accompanied it to the morgue and set about further testing. Emotionally exhausted, and worried about her friend, Lanie asked Esposito to take her back to the house.

Kate had locked herself in the master suite, and Alexis was sitting vigil by the bedroom door, typing rapidly on her laptop, tears streaming down her face. Lanie whispered, "Hey, Alexis."

Alexis closed the laptop, wiped her eyes, patted Lanie's arm. Lanie looked like she'd been in an accident herself. Her dress was muddy and littered with bits of weeds and plant material, she smelled like a refinery, and the skirt was torn where she'd slipped on the embankment returning to the road. But she smiled gently. "Where's Kate's dad?"

"He found a 6 pm AA meeting in town. Asked me to spell him for an hour." She started to pull out her phone, but Lanie stopped her.

"Good. We can all use a break." Lanie knocked, raising her voice. "Kate Beckett, I have a hairpin and I know how to use it."

Kate dragged herself out of the numb, suicidal haze, and concealed the gun behind an arrangement of seashells.

"Not now, Lanie."

A scratching noise came from within the lock, and Kate sighed.

"Ok, Sweetie, I'm comin' in." Lanie smiled at Alexis. "Go collapse a while, Honey. I got this." The lock gave easily. When she walked in, Kate stood with her back to the door, still wearing her wedding dress, holding a fist-sized seashell in one hand.

"Kate?"

"Yeah."

"You have to take care of yourself. This situation could turn on a dime, you know that."

"And if he's dead?"

Lanie took a deep breath. "Then you still have to take care of yourself. Do what he can't do."

Kate collapsed on the floor in sobs, her skirts belling out around her like a cloud. Lanie didn't come down, but Kate leaned against her muddy green skirt, and Lanie stroked her hair a few minutes, just letting her cry without a word. She started pulling out Kate's hairpins and uncoiling the chestnut locks. "Now here's what we're gonna do. We're gonna get cleaned up, get a little rest. The local coroner's got Esposito watching his back in case anything gets weird, and Ryan's at the crime scene. You have to just let go for a little while, and then when you're fresh, you can grab the steering wheel again. Mkay?"

Kate nodded, and Lanie helped her up. Kate set the seashell beside the fireplace.

Lanie helped Kate undress, first from the elaborately buttoned gown, then the back-laced corset and stockings she'd worn underneath. She sighed in both appreciation and grief. It was unnecessary and gorgeous, cream silk and lace. Castle would've gone nuts over it. And it was also permeated with smoke and the bitter sweat of fear. Kate shuffled into the bathroom to scrub the stench of burnt rubber and paint and plastic off her skin and hair. She took nearly an hour in there, still crying, with Lanie knocking every fifteen minutes or so.

"Just making sure you haven't washed yourself down the drain," she said.

"I just threw up, but the rest of me won't fit," Kate called out wryly.

"God, you poor thing." Lanie could smell the smoke still on her own clothes, and on Kate's beautiful dress. She texted Alexis. _"Can we get these smoky clothes outside to air?"_ Alexis knocked a moment later, and Lanie handed out both Kate's dress and her own, plus a bag containing Kate's underthings. Like her dad, Alexis knew it was the little things that help people feel better: she handed Lanie her suitcase, which Esposito had brought in from the car. "Maybe there's a change of clothes in here for you?

Lanie smiled gratefully. She hadn't thought that part out yet, and was clad only in a sexy black slip she'd planned to reveal to Javi later that night. It wasn't gonna happen now. "Hang the dresses up by the pool to air out in the breeze. We'll send them to the cleaners tomorrow morning," Lanie said.

Alexis hesitated. "She won't want to wear it again."

"She won't want to smell it like that, either. Trust me."

Alexis nodded. "Thanks, Lanie." She took the armful of clothing and wrinkled her nose. "You're right, that's awful."

Nightfall crawled toward midnight before Rick had even started crawling toward fresh air. Back at the Hamptons estate, it was a house full of emptiness.

Martha had not given in to the siren song of booze, surprisingly, but Lanie phoned down to the local pharmacy and ordered up sleeping tabs for whoever might need them. Nobody wanted to eat, despite the immense pile of food that had been prepared for the wedding, and that had been expected to last the next day and night as house guests would have come and gone. But Teresa made up a light buffet anyway, and everyone talked everyone else into eating a few bites that seemed to revive the spirit even though it felt like lead in their stomachs for a while. Now the food was designated for any law enforcement who might come to pitch in on the search for Rick. He had crashed only five point two miles away, as the crow flies.

Five point two and a million miles away, and two hours later, the crime scene had been staked, the body removed, and Ryan stayed on his post as the burned-out Mercedes, now cooled enough to handle, was combed over by the local forensics team. They found Rick's burned wallet on the seat, everything melted together. The bullet from Tyson's gun was lodged in the dashboard, having passed through the back window.

Ryan was still wearing his tux. He looked over at the sheriff, who was munching on a sandwich. "Any word on the dogs?"

"They're another twenty minutes out," Kloskins replied.

Ryan nodded. "Thanks." He went up to the roadside, wanting to clear his head and lungs. A state trooper pointed to a small car, approaching slowly in the darkness. "Looks like reinforcements."

Ryan saw the driver and whispered, "Oh, no."

Alexis Castle pulled her car over and hurried to Ryan. She looked small, pale, so fearful. "I thought you might want some dinner." She was carrying a bag and a travel cup of what turned out to be coffee.

He hugged her, and took a sip. "Thanks," he said.

"I kind of sneaked away... should have asked Jenny how you take it."

"It's perfect." He looked at her piercingly. "Nobody knows you're here?"

Her voice was barely audible. "They told me not to come. I pretended to do some cleanup outside. They won't miss me for a little while."

"You are your father's daughter." Ryan scowled at her, but it was more sympathetic than anything. He patted her shoulder. "Better to apologize than ask sometimes, but they need to know you're safe." He texted Esposito and Jennny: _"Alexis here crime scene with me. She's ok. Let M & KB know"_

Javi texted back almost immediately. _"Typical Castle."_ Ryan read that to Alexis with an encouraging grin. She smiled back wanly.

Ryan replied to Esposito: "_Sniffer_ _Dogs arriving in 20. How's KB?" _

_"__Good. no more bodies so far. Stopped in 2 change & eat a bite. Back soon. Lanie's w/ KB in her room. Gave her sleep pill." _

_"__Good,"_ Ryan texted back. _"Almost hope this is kidnap even w/FBI. Looks bad here. Local cops have eye on house?"_

"Chief Brady stationed an unmarked in front. Took statements & left about 9pm. FBI will come in AM if kidnapping."

"Good. L8r."

Alexis' anxious eyes scanned the woodsy landscape, lit harshly by the floodlights around the crime scene. She gazed down at the Mercedes forlornly. The last time she'd ridden in it was on her way back from the airport when her dad came to get her and Pi at the airport. Castle didn't take it out much in the city, and she'd been so busy with her stupid boyfriend to spend time with him. Too busy being mad over nothing. Regret settled on her face like a gill net over a school of dolphins, the emotions trapped and twisting. "There was no body in the car?"

Ryan shook his head. "Nor under it, that we've been able to discern."

Her shoulders rose up around her ears and she shivered, although the night was still warm. "God, where is he, Detective Ryan?"

"Maybe we'll find out soon." His stomach rumbled, and he rummaged in the bag. "You mind?"

"Go ahead." The sandwich was cold but delicious: some kind of salmon and dill mousse, light and lemony, with lettuce and capers on mini ciabatta. It came with a side of chilled asparagus spears dressed with salt, pepper, olive oil and balsamic. A dessert of figs stuffed with goat cheese and almonds. They hadn't had the heart to cut the cake up.

He grinned. "Hell of a caterer."

"I helped pick the food out. Daddy wanted to go rustic with beanie-weenies and mac and cheese. Stick to his roots."

"Cooler heads prevailed."

She nodded. "Daddy's trial run of the S'mores Wedding Cake was..." her face wobbled between tears and a smile. "Well, it was a worse nightmare than this, but just barely."

Ryan grinned. "How so?"

"Oh, he made a 25% scale model, so it was only about ten inches tall." She smiled a little. "Graham cracker crumbs, chocolate cake, marshmallow frosting. He tried using his blowtorch to brown it, it caught fire, and Grams put it out with a bucket of half-melted champagne ice." She made a sorrowful little face. "Now I feel so bad for laughing at him."

Ryan chuckled sadly and pulled her in for another hug. "I... look, we don't know what happened. But I do promise we'll find out. We'll find _him_." He just stood there, holding half a fig, trying not to get goat cheese in her hair as she sobbed. "And you know what I think?" he added. "I think it's a lot of trouble to get a body up that embankment, and there's no drag marks, no other fresh vehicle marks. So either he walked up, or he walked away. Either way, I think that for now, he's alive. We just have to find him."

Alexis drew a deep breath and nodded. She (being a Castle) was always prepared; she pulled out a tissue and blew her nose with surprising force for such a delicate little peach of a girl. "I just want them to have their happy ending," she sighed.

A Canine Unit SUV pulled up. Sheriff Kloskins and Deputy Holst stepped up to meet the officers, then introduced them: Rufus Freeze and Muhammed Atah.

Ryan murmured to Holst, "That's an unfortunate name."

Holst shrugged. "Yeah, but he's a great guy. Don't hold it against him."

"'Course not."

Freeze said, "The nearest body-track dog is upstate right now on that serial case. But Betsy's got a great tracking record, and Wilbur here … he's still learning but unstoppable. You have a personal item?"

Alexis said, "Hold on," and ducked back into her car. "Thought you might need a clear scent. I took it off his bed this morning when we were setting up the house. We changed all the linens..." She had a lump in her throat. "I'm a forensics intern. Wasn't sure if the car would..."

Sheriff Kloskins smiled over at her. "You saved us a trip. Thank you."

She seemed at a loss for words, and he turned back to the other officers. "Let's meet those dogs of yours."

The bloodhounds were ugly, lovely creatures, all tongues and noses and wiggle and tails and ears and bloodshot, baggy, sad-happy eyes, so excited to be working, to be doing their jobs. They made friends with Rick's pillow case and their handlers guided them around. Betsy picked up Rick's scent both on Alexis and on Ryan, because _the man touches everything_, including Ryan's tux jacket. A hug, a hand on the shoulder, it all leaves a trace on the body as well as the spirit. Alexis wasn't sure whether to encourage them as they sniffed around her. Atah said proudly, "This is Betsy the Wonder Dog."

Freeze said, "And this is Wilbur. Just be still and calm. You can pet them after they've done their job. They need to work now." Alexis nodded. Betsy seemed to have figured out the difference between Rick and Alexis. The hound wandered back and forth, nose lifted then searching the ground, then lifted again, pointing down the embankment. Wilbur seemed confused, sniffing for awhile at Alexis, then Ryan, then the ground where unbeknownst to them, Jerry Tyson had left the Escalade and half-walked, half-slid down the embankment. Betsy, however, paid that no mind. Atah and Freeze looked at one another in puzzlement.

The dogs were eerily silent, canvasing across the crash scene, especially interested in the pile of burned leaves, snuffling and sneezing at the bits of cinder and ash. Then they started barking. They knew where the fight happened, they knew where the flare cap had landed at the base of the gooseberry bush (also that it wasn't there any more, since they didn't bother to push into its thorns). They were very enthusiastic about meeting the flare cap itself, although the sulfur smell must have been unpleasant for them. Only Wilbur showed the mildest interest in a man's size-12 dress shoe prints that went down and halfway back up the embankment before returning to the car. Betsy pretty much fell in love with Castle's clear print by the Mercedes' trunk, the one with the circle of melted plastic in the middle.

The dogs really wanted to go under the car. Wilbur was practically dancing. Betsy's nose and paws were blackened with oily soot, and she dug at the soil and leaves. She bayed once, a thrilling, primal sound. Then she yelped and pawed at her nose. She'd hit a hot spot. Atah bent over her. "You ok, girl?"

She snuffed and pawed at her nose again. He looked at her more closely. "Aw, Sweetie." He looked at Freeze. "You keep going with Wilbur, I'm gonna give her a little break."

Alexis and Ryan exchanged a horrified look. "Do you think he's under there?" she whispered, and added tightly, "There's no way he'd survive that."

"We don't know that yet," he sighed.

Sheriff Kloskins looked grim. "Let's tow it up and see what's under."

Ryan texted Esposito._ "Dogs indicate he's under car. Come get Alexis, bring Lanie." _

_"On it bro. 10 min." _

The tow truck had arrived an hour before, but the police had kept the driver waiting around. Because the car's tires had popped and melted, it was now on its rims. It wasn't going to be an easy haul, and unseen evidence might be destroyed in the dark.

Ryan turned his attention back to Sheriff Kloskins, who was arguing with Freeze. "It's so dark. We didn't have that much time to check the area before sunset... I'm afraid we might miss something."

Freeze shrugged. "Look, you know Betsy. She's almost never wrong. Some evidence under there."

"Yeah. _Almost_ never. For all we know he went under the car and changed the oil a day ago."

Ryan and Alexis exchanged a look. "No," Alexis called down. "My dad's good at a lot of things, but when it comes to auto mechanics... he's a hazard. He almost clocked himself trying to teach me how to change a tire." She smiled desperately. "Please. If he's under there..."

Sheriff Kloskins sighed. He could see it in her face, what they all knew. _"If he's under there, he's probably dead. But I have to know."_ Nobody said it. Kloskins rubbed his face and turned to the driver. "All right, bring the trailer down." He looked up at Ryan. "She needs to leave."

"No..." Alexis began.

Esposito and Lanie had just driven up. Lanie had changed from her beautiful emerald dress to jeans, a T, and a leather jacket; Espo likewise. She looked grim and sad. Esposito's face was like stone.

Kevin said, "Come on, Alexis. Let's take you back to the house for a while."

She jerked away from him. "I can handle this."

Esposito let Lanie go down the embankment on her own. He took Alexis by the shoulders, gazed at her deeply, his brown eyes shining. "No. This you can't handle. Your grandma needs you. Beckett needs you. And you don't need to see it, whether he's there or not. You don't need to see it. Okay?"

Alexis' chin trembled, and her eyes spilled over with tears. Javi hugged her briefly. "Be strong, Corazon. We'll know a lot more in an hour or so."

Ryan took her arm and led her back to her rental car. She meekly handed him the keys, and he drove her back to the house. The lower floor was mostly lit up, the upstairs dark. A single candle shone from the window of the master suite. Alexis said, "I hope Kate's sleeping."

They walked in to the sound of Ryan's baby Sarah Grace, fussing. Martha was walking her around the great room, and smiled half-apologetically. "Jenny was so tired, and I couldn't sleep anyway."

Kevin grinned. "Thanks, we were up most of last night and Gracie probably didn't get much of a nap." He peeked in at the little pink face against Martha's shoulder. "Looks like she's almost out." The baby's hands batted in the random, uncoordinated motion of pre-sleep. None of them wanted to talk about the crash. Castle's absence hung over them like black cobwebs, ready to ensnare them and crush the air out of their lungs.

"I can really use some hot chocolate," Alexis said, a little too cheerfully. "Anyone else?"

Martha nodded thanks, but it was more to give Alexis something to do than because she wanted anything.

Kevin said, "I'd like to clean up and change before I touch her, you mind?"

Martha smiled and shook her head, "Not at all," holding the baby as much for her own comfort as Gracie's. Kevin hit the shower for a quick rinse-off then dressed in sweats in case they got a call, so he could hit the ground running. Jenny, who'd lived in a perpetual state of exhaustion since Gracie's birth, didn't even twitch as he quietly came and went.

Alexis set to work, making the cocoa Castle-style: Extra Everything. The baby had gone quiet. Ryan returned, refreshed and smelling much better. With elaborate care, he removed the sleeping Gracie from Martha's arms and carried her into the guest room where Jenny was out cold and sawing cute little logs. Arms feeling too empty, Martha kept pacing, and Alexis brought her up to date on the crash scene.

Kevin checked Gracie's diaper one last time and smiled ruefully. Wet, of course. They had converted a low dresser into a changing table, so he set to work cleaning and changing the baby as she slept through it. Then he picked her up, treasuring her soft, reassuring weight, looking down at her peaceful little face. With a pang of sympathy, he wondered how Martha and Jim must feel. Every moment of Gracie's life was precious to him, and he couldn't foresee that diminishing when she was ten, twenty, thirty, forty. How crushing it would be to face her premature death, or see her endure traumatic loss. She was already the center of his life, and she hadn't even learned to crawl yet. The baby stirred and whimpered, gripped his finger in her tiny fist, and he walked her around a little more, not wanting to let her go. He looked around the beautiful, softly lit room. So many pictures and mementos of Castle and his family and friends – a photo of Beckett's team on the beach last July 4, when Castle got that epic sunburn...

His attention was caught by the photos above the changing table. Martha had pointed them out to him and Jenny earlier in the day, when showing them their room. Before the crash. He'd looked at them idly a couple of times while changing the baby. And now he realized it: something wasn't right.

There were four black-and-white photos, matted and labeled with professional calligraphy, mounted in plain glass rectangular frames. One was of Meredith and Castle, a gorgeous couple in their early twenties. It was a pro studio shot. She was pregnant, with him behind her, his huge, protective hand on her belly. The second photo was of Martha, alone. It was a grainy but carefully retouched snapshot, her smile half-proud, half-reluctant – almost shy. Martha looked skinny, tired, and pale, and was wearing a spectacularly ugly maternity smock. That morning Martha had laughed about it: "Back then the pregnancy clothes were simply _appalling_. I had nothing to wear toward the end but this hideous pink thing... and you know there are rules about redheads wearing that color. I looked like a gumball. Richard wasn't born for another two months and I was already _enormous_!"

The second set of pictures was of mother and child: a pro shot of Meredith with Alexis, age 1 month; another grainy snapshot of Martha with Richard, age 1 month. Martha had said, "Someday we hope to have maternity pictures of Katherine and Alexis here as well."

Ryan blinked, remembering what Jenny had said: "My gosh, Martha, you're taller than me but your tummy was huge!"

Martha had laughed. "Oh, Richard was quite robust. Have I ever told you the story about how I gave birth..." and she'd gone on to do that, something about a subway and a blackout... and of course, April Fool's Day. It had been very entertaining.

Ryan peered more closely at the picture of Martha and her baby. _Robust?_ He was tiny! Smaller than Alexis, smaller even than Sarah Grace, who had been a little early. How had Martha been so big at seven months, and given birth to such a bitty little... "Huh." He set Gracie in her porta-crib and covered her with her favorite purple blankie. Returning to the kitchen, he found Martha alone, stirring the cocoa, her thoughts 5.2 miles away.

"Martha... look, we need to talk."

She looked up and knew from his expression that something was wrong. Her blue eyes went wide. "What is it? Is Richard..."

"No, no. I haven't heard anything. But I need you to tell me something. What happened at Castle's birth? What's the real story?"

Alexis, who'd used the bathroom, stepped back into the kitchen, looking puzzled. "Why do you ask?"

Ryan held Martha's gaze. "Because you've told the story so many different ways, and I look at his baby picture, and it doesn't add up."

Martha sat down, her face expressionless. She swallowed. "Alexis, darling. Please go and see if Katherine is awake. And Jim, too. I guess it's time."

"Gram?" Alexis' face was a study in puzzlement and the beginning of anger.

"Please."

Lanie had given Kate a sleeping tab after Brady left, and she'd been asleep for a few hours. Now Kate was lying on her stomach, moaning, her hands clawing at the sheets. She dreamed she was crawling through a tunnel, over and around and through body after body, in different stages of decomposition, through every kind of murder scene. Bodies were stuffed into mattresses, shoved into a wall safe, face down in water, coated in oil, frozen, hanging upside down. Some of them had been altered to look like Lanie, Esposito, Ryan. She found her own body, with every injury she'd ever received unhealed and festering, a hole in the heart spewing blood, tears still fresh on her own face. She crawled past every murder she'd ever investigated, and worst of all her mom's body, over and over again, leaning against a trash can as she rounded turn after turn. But the one she was looking for – dead or alive – eluded her. "Castle!" she sat up, awakened by her own voice. She was shaky and sweating, her hair still damp from her shower. She checked the time. It was after midnight, and a single tall candle, burning in her window, was the only light.

She got up, used the bathroom, rinsed her face and drank some water, and then she came out and sat back down by the fireplace. She switched on the light, dispelling the shadows of death that still clawed at her from dark corners of the room. Castle's absence was excruciating. The urge to hurt herself had passed for now, but the pain was stubborn. She found the gun again, intending to put it away, and now she remembered him showing her this lovely row of shells, and little labeled jars of sand he'd picked up from beaches all over the world. Each one with its own story. Moments he treasured, that he wished she could have been there for. She picked up the fist-sized pink conch he'd found on a beach in Cuba by way of Belize. "You can hear an entirely different ocean in this one," he'd smiled.

Now she held it to her ear again. She knew the sound wasn't that of the sea. Somehow, her heart was still beating, in spite of bullets and so many mistakes and wrong turns. Her heartbeat was reaching into the spiraled whorls, echoing around, creating magic as his heartbeat had drummed magic into her life. But it wasn't enough. She ached to hear the sound of his voice. As she twisted the shell away from the ear to set it down, something inside rattled. Maybe a pebble. She emptied the shell out into her hand. It was a little metal receiver. Someone had bugged their room. Sometime within the last two weeks.

It's not exactly that Kate smiled, but she bared her teeth like an animal. She looked around the room, guessing (rightly) that somewhere amongst the décor was a camera as well, although at the time, her actions were only being recorded, not viewed. On the other end of the transmission, Kelly Neiman – Rosie – heard Kate's clenched whisper on the scanner in a battered Subaru wagon, parked near a mini-mall 5.4 miles away. "I'm coming for you. Make sure you have plenty of rope, because you're gonna hang yourselves."

Alexis knocked softly. "Kate? Gram wants to talk to you."

"I'll be there soon."

Kate wasn't just talking to Alexis. She sang softly into the shell: "We'll meet again, don't know where, don't know when, but we will meet again some sunny day."

Under Kelly's curly red wig, cold sweat trickled down the back of her neck.


	7. Chapter 7

**TRIGGER WARNING:**

Martha reveals a childbirth loss. If this is a trigger for you, then by all means skip this chapter!  
I'll give a short synopsis at the beginning of chapter 8.

This was a difficult chapter to write, not only because there's almost no action,  
but also because of the subject matter. I had a traumatic pregnancy loss myself  
and generally avoid the subject in fiction 16 years after the fact.  
One never really gets over it, but writing has been a key tool in coping with it over the years.

***note:** if you have had a pregnancy loss such as miscarriage, stillbirth, abortion,  
or a child with birth defects, I'd like to recommend these two very helpful books:  
"Spiritual Midwifery" by Ina May Gaskin, and  
"Ended Beginnings" by Panuthos/ Romeo/ McMahon/  
If you've been affected personally by such a loss and would like to discuss it with me, please pm me.

I tried to stay true not only to Martha's personality, but also to the times in which she was living,  
and at the same time serve the purpose of the story.  
There is a little fun thrown in too, because she's reminiscing about Richard and he's always interesting to learn about.  
So it's not all darkness. Grab a hot drink, cup it in your hands, take a deep breath, and have a seat.  
The worst is actually over. :-) Now we deal with memory.

* * *

**Too Soon Part 6: Breaking Silence**

_There's a silence that comes to a house where no one can sleep  
I guess that's the price of love, I know it's not cheap  
Baby, baby, baby light my way  
Ultraviolet - U2_

* * *

Alexis's soft voice came through the door. "Kate?"

"I'm awake. Hold on." She opened the closet, put the gun in the pocket of Rick's black beach windbreaker, and whispered a single word to it: "Soon."

Kevin took out his phone and checked messages. He said nothing, giving Martha time to gather her thoughts but unwilling to let her off the hook. There was nothing new from the crash scene so far, but a text from Dr. Dinkmeyer at the coroner's office gave him pause: "_DNA from John Doe matches Castle's almost exactly. Given circmstances would've assumed it was him. Parrish kicked butt._"

He replied "_She's known for that._ _Any chance Doe is RC's brother?_"  
_  
"Either that or clone :-D"_ followed shortly thereafter by _"Sorry about the :-D no laughing matter spend too much time with stiffs."_ followed by _"sorry re stiffs comment. Dealing w/ rash of unrelated murders, got a full house & understaffed."_  
_  
"You were beginning to sound like Perlmutter."_

Dinkmeyer responded, _"Did you see him crash site today? WTF?"_  
_  
"Dunno. Thought he'd be heading back on bus, musta called a taxi. Wanted to help?"_  
_  
"Yeah but hard to help if you're wheeling a love doll around with you. Said he couldn't get sitter short notice." _  
_  
"8-O omfg Gotta go keep me posted if anything new. Thx"_

* * *

Alexis returned a few moments later. "Lanie's dose had worn off, and she was..." Alexis shook her head mournfully. "Wide awake. She and Mr. Beckett will be down in a minute. What..."

Martha got up nervously and added more milk to the hot chocolate saucepan, then stirred in a squirt of chocolate syrup, some chocolate chips, and a capful of vanilla extract. She took out a mug and tried to pour the hot liquid in, but jumped at Alexis' insistent voice. "Gram, what's going on?" She set the pan down, trying to collect herself. Kate appeared a moment later, bundled up in Castle's oversized navy sweatshirt, pulling her loose hair into a ponytail.

"Ah. There you are, Katherine." Martha smiled shakily, then glanced at Ryan, who nodded encouragement. Alexis took over the hot chocolate duties, pouring four mugs, topping them with whipped cream and a sprinkle of cinnamon. No nutmeg. That was a Meredith thing.

Kate was white and wan, a ghost of the radiant woman she'd been that morning. She sat down at the stool next to Ryan and cupped the warm mug between her hands. "What is it?" Her voice was flat and weary, waiting for the next blow, speaking to no one in particular.

Ryan said quietly, "I'm surprised Castle never figured it out."

Martha said, "I think on some level he's always known. But not how far it has gone." She bit her lip, ashamed. "I'm just beginning to see the whole picture."

Kate shifted in her seat, and she closed her eyes wearily. "Can we cut the Martha Rodgers dramatics for once, please?"

Jim came in, looking sleepy. He looked around the group gathered there, and hesitated.

Martha wasn't even taken aback. "I deserved that," she said mildly.

Jim asked, "Is this a bad time?"

Kate patted the empty stool beside her.

Marth closed her eyes, somehow hearing Richard's encouraging voice in her head. "_Just tell the truth_." She opened her eyes and looked down into her mug as if it were tea leaves telling a fortune. "Richard had a twin. I thought he'd died at birth. Now I'm not so sure."

Ryan had been ready for it, but Alexis and Kate were both white with shock. Jim stretched and cracked his neck. "This family."

Ryan said, "The body found by Castle's car... similar size, identical clothing to his wedding outfit,"

Kate interrupted, an edge of terror in her voice, afraid of new information. "It's not him. Lanie said it's not him."

Ryan nodded. "That hasn't changed. But they took samples, and the lab found something weird. Lanie had them re-run the DNA profile three times. She found it in the system from... from the last time Castle was arrested. It's very similar to Castle's profile... Same mother, most likely the same father, but it's not _Richard_ Castle. Not Richard Rodgers, I should say." He glanced over at Martha. She had pressed her hands over her mouth, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

Kate pressed fingers to her temples, fighting to keep the roil of emotions in check. "And you know for _sure_ the body's not Castle's?"

"The dead man's wallet was destroyed in the fire, but he had the key to an Escalade in his back pocket." At Kate's questioning glance, he added, "They're running a trace on it now. Castle had injuries that didn't show on this body, had updated fillings... Also our John Doe showed traces of repeated childhood injuries, consistent with abuse."

Martha whimpered, "Oh, God."

Kate's eyes burned into Martha's. "How did this happen?"

Martha squirmed. She dearly wanted a glass of wine. Actually she dearly wanted to crawl in a hole and die. If she'd known that Richard had crawled in a hole and was close to dying himself, she would have rejected that idea out of hand. Either that or joined him.

Alexis was staring at her in suppressed rage. "Grandma..."

Martha continued. "I was over thirty. Still single, no living family, finally having made a name for myself as an actress. The pregnancy hit me so hard. I was sick, constantly nauseated, for four months. I was only able to conceal it for so long, then of course I was out of work as an actress. I got a low-paying job cleaning houses."

Alexis teased. "Come on, Gram, you haven't cleaned a house since..."

Martha had never spoken quite so harshly to her before. "_You've_ never wanted for anything. Richard made sure of it. And he did so because when he was small, we wanted for _everything_." Alexis shrank back, startled. Martha collected herself a little. "And you've made it worth the effort. You both have." She sighed. "Back then, before Roe Vs. Wade, a lot of women availed themselves of … gynecological care off the books, so to speak. Even with all the strides from women's lib, chances were my acting career was ruined, and as a general rule, most other careers I might have chosen as well. I thought hard about the stigma of becoming an unwed mother. I almost didn't go through with it..."

"Oh, Gram!" Alexis reached out an apologetic hand, wrapping it over Martha's. "Thank you for reconsidering."

Martha smiled and shrugged. She sighed gratefully at her granddaughter. "Best decision I've ever made. But I had no health insurance. No family. Richard's father had disappeared without even knowing I was expecting. And the pregnancy was a nightmare. I was sick, couldn't keep weight on, couldn't afford checkups... I stayed in touch with the... independent nurse practitioner I'd first consulted with."

Beckett frowned. "You couldn't afford a doctor?"

"No. I really couldn't. There's a huge difference, Katherine, between a cop's salary and benefits, and the income of an off-off-off Broadway actress."

Kate nodded, chastened.

Martha continued: "Betty took real joy in helping me get through to term. She was a decent woman, operating at tremendous risk to herself, and she offered the best services she could under the circumstances. She had... ended a lot of pregnancies." Martha gave a rueful little smile. "When I was eight months along, I went into premature labor and went to her place to have the babies. We knew I was having twins, and I simply couldn't afford the hospital stay and anesthesia that were considered required at the time."

Ryan's eyebrows danced a tango of puzzlement. "Anesthesia?"

Martha nodded. "Back then, mothers were routinely sedated, and birth often completed with forceps or C-section. It was standard at hospitals, and very expensive."

Jim nodded grimly.

Ryan grimaced. "I'm glad we planned for a natural birth. Made it easier on Jennie." He and Kate exchanged a genuine smile then, remembering Gracie's birth in the ambulance.

Kate patted his hand. "Sarah Grace was wide awake and ready to go."

Martha chuckled, "So was Richard. My water broke on the subway, and I barely made it to Betty's." She smiled shakily. "He flew out so fast he left skid marks."

"Gram!" Alexis cried, thoroughly embarrassed.

Kate grinned, thinking of Castle's propensity to slide around the floor in his socks. "He's gonna love hearing this." _Please, let him hear this. Today. _

Martha's smile faded. "Betty had another patient there at the time. Her name was Deirdre, an immigrant, fairly young. She was much further along, actually overdue, but her labor had gone on for hours already. Betty was going back and forth between us. Deirdre was clearly in withdrawal from drugs – what kind I don't know. But she was in a horrible state."

Everyone flinched.

Martha took a sip of her cocoa, her expression was far away and mournful. "I was still in labor after Richard was born – with his twin. My second bag of waters broke, and this labor was much slower. I was exhausted, already hemorrhaging. I must have passed out. When I came to, I was in the emergency room at the hospital. Betty had dumped us there and run, returning to help Deirdre. The emergency room took me in since I was in shock. Richard was there with me, and he was small but otherwise fine. Tiny, but so strong, his little fingers..." Her voice caught. She mimed the grip of a small hand on her index. "But they... they told me that was the only baby I was dropped off with." She pressed trembling fingers over her eyes. "I didn't even know if the other had been a boy or a girl. Never got to hold him, never got– never even got to see him."

"Oh, Martha," Kate murmured. "I'm so sorry."

Ryan wanted nothing more than to run back into the guest room and make sure Gracie was breathing. He checked his own emotions, damping back tears.

"I didn't even get to have a funeral for him. When I went back to Betty, she said..." Martha closed her eyes, and her mouth tightened in a hard line. "I'd been in the hospital for four days. She said his body had already been incinerated as medical waste."

Alexis gasped. Martha said, "That's just the way it was back then. She had to hide what she was doing from the authorities. I had no reason to disbelieve her."

Kate said gently, "And what happened to the other mom?"

Martha shook her head. "Deirdre? I only wish I knew more. I never forgot her face, of course. We bonded a little, since our beds were side-by-side in Betty's back room. About four years later I ran into her again. Now that I look back on it, I should have known."

Ryan tilted his head. "Why is that?"

"You understand this was before my career had completely recovered. I was still struggling to pay the bills, relegated to those roles for a 'woman of a certain age'." She rolled her eyes. "We lived in the Bronx with a couple of housemates and a herd of cockroaches." She shuddered. "I had Richard enrolled in a Head Start preschool for low-income children. He was doing so well!" She smiled. "I brought cupcakes in for his birthday." She glanced at Alexis. "No, I didn't bake them, I didn't want to be responsible for a mass poisoning." Amusement, borne of habit, flitted across Alexis' solemn face.

Kate's expression was a mix of impatience and fascination. Like mother, like son... would their own children be storytellers? Yes, damn it. They would. And she would _listen_. She said, "Go on, Martha."

"I didn't know, but Deirdre had just started her son there a few days before Richard's birthday. His name was Michael. He was a beautiful child – I'll never forget his face. Brown eyes, strong eyebrows, wavy brown hair. Angelic. Until he saw me."

"What happened?"

"Turns out April First was Michael's birthday, too. He took one look at me holding those cupcakes and started screaming. Just the most unholy tantrum. 'Those are mine! _Mine!_ It's my birthday!'" Martha kept her voice fairly low, so as to avoid disturbing Jennie and the other sleeping guests. But her body language conveyed a terrifying, unbridled rage. Then she added, "Deirdre tried to calm him down, and he pushed her away, and I still can't believe he said this, 'You're not my real mother.' Then he pointed to me and said, 'She is. She's my real mother.'"

Jim's eyes went wide with disbelief. Ryan said, "Whoa."

Martha nodded. "I knew in my bones that he was right. I just don't know exactly what happened."

Jim frowned. "I don't mean to insult your intuition, but how could he know? Newborns don't have the best eyesight."

Martha shrugged a little. "A family blessing and curse. My grandfather traveled with the circus as the Amazing Rodgini, doing memory tricks: he could read a page and recite it from memory, hear a story or song..."

Jim stared at her hard. "Johanna's pop was a magician. I wonder whether they knew one another back in the day?"

Martha grinned wryly, "I have no doubt. They were probably competing for the same jobs... anyway, the Rodgers clan are like elephants: we remember everything. No doubt descended from the great bards who never read or wrote, but learned entire epics word for word at one sitting. Birthdays, anniversaries, forensic facts, shopping lists, and of course scripts..." She looked at Kate. "Have you ever heard Richard say, 'I forgot'?"

Kate frowned, thinking back. "I must have."

"He was lying. All right, fibbing. He may get distracted, but he remembers _everything."_

Alexis grinned. "Well, sometimes he has to poke around in that junk-heap of his brain for awhile before it comes to the surface."

Beckett turned her moss-green eyes on Alexis. "You, too?"

"Not quite so intensely. I actually have to work to remember things."

Beckett pursed her lips. "Good to know." If they found Rick – when they found Rick – she was gonna make some babies with him, and if they had minds like steel traps, she'd want to be ready for that. When Rick said "I can't unsee that," he actually meant it.

Martha continued. "I remember lying in my crib, looking out at the moon." She arched an eyebrow. "Back in the Jurassic period, I believe."

Alexis said, "I remember hating strained-chicken-and-pea baby food."

Kate nodded. "Rick told me a story once about the nanny setting the couch on fire and him trying to put it out."

Martha chuckled. "Yes. He poured a glass of straight vodka on it. He was about eighteen months, but he was already obsessed with firemen, and deduced that was the correct course of action." She didn't mention the part about coming home to find the apartment full of smoke, the couch half-burned, and a note from the nanny: _"Ricky hit his hed, gone too Genarall ER." One story at a time, Martha._

Jim said, "So it's possible that Michael really did remember you. Perhaps Deirdre gave birth while Betty was driving you to the ER. Maybe your own baby appeared to have died, hers didn't make it, and she switched them when she realized Michael was alive."

Ryan added, "Like that baby who woke up hours later in the morgue fridge in Mexico a few days ago." The three women looked at Little Castle in a mix of amusement and horror. He shrugged. "Hey, it happens."

Beckett mused, "It's also possible that Betty knew, and Deirdre may not have. She might have thought she was doing you both a favor by swapping the babies. You wouldn't be burdened with twins, and if Deirdre had to face the guilt of losing her child to drug use..."

Martha nodded. "When she was in labor, Deirdre swore that if her baby lived, she'd never touch drugs again. She seemed very determined about that."

Alexis whispered, "What did you do, Grandma? After the cupcake tantrum?"

"I... I could tell Deirdre had gone back to using. Skinny, teeth in ruins, skin like paper... I was afraid to confront her. But it haunted me. So I went back to Betty's. She'd closed up shop and disappeared somewhere." Martha sighed, obviously ashamed. "Truth be told, I let it go. What was I going to do, hire an investigator? Go to the police?" She folded her hands, looking at Beckett and Ryan. "And yet here we are. The police finally came to me."

Kate found herself shivering. She took a sip of her cocoa. "You moved Rick out of the school."

Martha nodded. "But not right away." She rested her forehead in her hands. "Getting Richard into that preschool had been such a hurdle as it was, there was so much competition for very few openings. I avoided Deirdre and her little monster like the plague. I didn't want to pursue it. I didn't want..." she stopped. "I could barely handle Richard. And I could tell Deirdre was already afraid of her son – of _my_ son. I asked that the boys be kept separated as much as possible. But just a few days later, it became untenable."

Ryan said, "Go on."

"This boy, Michael. Richard came running to the preschool teacher, told her that Michael had killed a stray kitten he found in the play yard. Strangled it with a piece of string." Martha paused, a new grief on her face. Her child had done this. _Her child..._ "When the teacher came looking, the kitten was gone, and nobody else would admit to seeing anything. Since she'd never even seen the kitten, there was no point in believing the word of one four-year-old against another, no matter how precocious either one might be. Richard begged not to go back, but I didn't have any options. Afterwards Michael really had it out for Richard, just hated him."

Kate frowned a little. She could imagine Rick as a very sweet, curious little boy, impossible to dislike. She shook the image out of her mind, trying to focus on the story.

Martha added, "The preschool had one of those shoe-lacing contraptions in the classroom, you know the wooden kind with the little grommets?"

Alexis nodded. "We had one at my preschool, but it was plastic and all my shoes had buckles or velcro."

Kate closed her eyes. Her kindergarten had had one as well. Wooden, with candy-striped red-and-white laces...

"A few days after the kitten, their teacher checked in on them at nap time to find that Michael was trying to strangle Richard with the lacing. She caught it before physical harm was done, but Richard was terribly shaken up. I came and picked him up from school and we never went back."

Kate's hands had balled into fists. "Martha, was the shoelace green and white striped?"

Martha nodded tentatively. "That's very possible. But I didn't actually see it. You'd have to ask Ri-" She stopped, pressing her fingertips to her eyes. "Why do you ask?"

Beckett's voice belied her physical tension. "And how did Deirdre wear her hair?"

Martha smiled, puzzled. "It was long and straight, like cornsilk. A lovely natural pale blonde."

Alexis was staring hard at Kate's white face. "What is it?"

Ryan already had his phone out and tapped autodial. "Come on, Lanie. Pick up. Pickup pickup pickup..." He walked away backwards, his eyes on Kate.

Beckett whispered, "Our body's 3XK?"

He nodded, spoke with Lanie, confirming what the four cops had each privately suspected. "Yes. And they're brothers."

Martha's face went grey, her eyes fluttered, and she slumped in a faint. Her first real one, ever. Unglamorous, unceremonious, it would have looked utterly ridiculous on stage. Alexis caught her just before her head hit the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

**Too Soon Chapter 8: Dream Out Loud**

* * *

_And I must be an acrobat  
To talk like this and act like that.  
And you can dream, so dream out loud  
And you can find your own way out.  
And you can build, and I can will  
And you can call, I can't wait until  
You can stash and you can seize  
In dreams begin responsibilities  
And I can love, and I can love  
And I know that the tide is turning 'round  
So don't let the bastards grind you down._

_Acrobat - U2_

* * *

They took Martha and laid her on the couch, tucked a pillow under her knees and put a dampened paper towel on her forehead. She came out of it pretty quickly.

"Well," she woozed. "That was true Rodgers dramatics."

Alexis sat on the floor at her shoulder. "You're in fine form, Grams."

Kate was sitting at her hip, holding her hand. "Are you all right?"

Martha nodded. "I think the tranquilizer kicked in when I wasn't expecting it." She squeezed Kate's fingers gently. "You look a bit peaked yourself, Katherine."

Kate's lip trembled. "I just want this to be over... but it's a kidnapping. So we haven't even started."

Martha sighed. "We can pray he's still alive. I have joint access to several accounts, it should be easy to come up with ransom..."

Kate nodded, knowing in her heart that ransom wasn't even part of the equation. Whoever had Castle... they didn't want money. They wanted revenge. She said gently, "Ryan's in touch with the FBI. They'll head to the crash scene first, and interview us all in the morning." She glanced at the kitchen clock. It was analog, with illustrations of birds on the dial instead of numbered hours. When activated, it played a different recorded bird song at every hour. The sound was disabled due to being irritating as hell, no doubt one of Castle's 'seemed like a good idea at the time' purchases. On the upside, he knew how to identify the call of the Northern Mockingbird. "It's 1:40. So, later this morning."

Martha nodded. "Then we should all try to get some rest." She sat up slowly with Kate's help.

Tears started up in Kate's eyes. "I'd give anything... just to hear the sound of his voice."

"Me too." Martha pressed her fingers over her eyelids, trying to push tears back. She'd cried enough for one day.

Alexis got up and hurried to a bookshelf, took down a slim volume. "That's something I can do." She handed it to Kate with a wide grin.

Kate examined it, puzzled. "This is a romance novel." Then she opened it up. "A book on tape? How old is this thing?"

"Look at the back cover."

"As read by Claire Sainte Victoire..." Kate peered at the black and white photo of a middle-aged – woman? - in glasses, a calico dress, and a pretty floral bonnet. "Oh, my God." She actually laughed. "Are you kidding me? He looks like a cross between Barbara Cartland and Grannie Clampett."

Martha spoke dreamily. "But you know that's not what he sounds like. He did a public reading and told the audience to just close their eyes and listen. Mrs. Sainte Victoire sold almost a hundred copies that night." She grinned. "I was supposed to stand in for him, but I had laryngitis, so I had a friend do a Mrs. Doubtfire makeover on him."

Beckett giggled, reading the blurb aloud: "Mrs. Sainte Victoire just manages to skim the moist, pink, pulsing lips of decency. A surprisingly deep, funny, scathingly political read, topped with whipped cream and a farmers' market strawberry." She glanced around. "Is there even a tape player in this house?"

Martha chuckled. "The boy cannot throw anything away."

Alexis nodded. "He still has his first Mac in storage." She went back to the wall shelf and opened up a door that concealed not only a VCR but a record turntable, an audiocassette player and even a reel-to-reel tape player.

"Ryan said his storage unit's amazing, but he still doesn't want me to see it," Kate smiled. When Rick had been framed for murder, of course he'd let the police look through everything. Beckett had decided to stay out of it, letting Castle have at least some sense of privacy. She remembered that Jameson Rook had ghost-written romance novels, but this was new to her. She handed the first cassette out of four to Alexis, who popped it into the player and switched on the stereo. They heard a low hiss from the tape, followed by Richard Castle's mellow baritone.

"_Deep in Desire, by Claire Sainte Victoire. _

_Copyright 1998, Parti-Colored Publications, all rights reserved._

Chapter One: Sylvia Atkinson couldn't put Manhattan behind her fast enough. In fact she already had a speeding ticket tucked into the sun visor of her brand-new burgundy 1972 Charger as she headed east on the LIE. She needed to get away from a memory that burned hotter than the 11 a.m. sun beating down on her steering wheel. Her divorce from Bill was final, and she was free, and goddammit, she was going to the beach, because Bill hated sand in his trunks. She was going to eat lobster, because it made him break out in a rash. And she was going to stay up all night doing something other than trying to block out Bill's drunken rants at his typewriter. She popped "Who's Next" into the tape player and cranked it up to full blast, screaming along to 'Won't Get Fooled Again.'" 

__Together they listened to the entire chapter, Beckett sitting in an easy chair, arms wrapped around a large cushion just for its warmth and weight. Listening to the story – about a recent divorcee who flirts with a Vietnam vet whom she meets when he plays folk music in a local coffee house – was soothing and refreshing to their careworn spirits. They got to hear a different Richard Castle, younger and seemingly more romantic, who didn't write about crimes, murders, or forensics. The story was deceptively simple: Sylvia was on the rebound, Cade was on the make, they connected, distrusted the connection, and as the story developed the listener/reader could safely presume they would find it again, on their way to a happy ending in 200 pages or so. Eyes closed, faded into exhaustion, Kate finally fell asleep, pretending her head was on Castle's shoulder. It was the closest thing she'd felt to peace since the phone call.

Her friends and family trailed off to bed one by one. Alexis and Martha shared a room that night for the first time since Alexis had turned four. They both lay awake for a long time, trying not to listen to one another trying not to cry. Teresa Beckett had taken the extra guest room. Kevin took his smoke-stained tux outside on Lanie's advice, to hang it next to her emerald dress. He didn't notice that Kate's dress, which should have been there as well, was missing. He tucked in with Jennie for a few hours' well deserved sleep. For the last time, Ryan checked his messages. Nothing from Dinkmeyer, nothing from Sheriff Kloskins.

The only note from Esposito: _"They're sending for a backhoe. Busted cement found under car. No ultrasound or air flow, but maybe a pocket if he's lucky. It'll be slow going." _

Ryan texted back: _"Dogs find anything else?"_

_"Nope. False scent burnt-down old foundation 1/8 mile away. Iron door bolted shut, some rust, undisturbed. Terrain Ultrasound not avail till Mon 9am"._

_"Fuck. Ok, setting alarm for 5am, call if anything changes or when FBI shows up."_

"_Think it's 3xk?"_

"Yup. Gut Feeling."

* * *

Still curled up sleeping in the living room, Kate stretched and turned over, slowly coming into awareness. Rick's voice was well into the story.

_"Cade was singing Danny's Song, and looked up from his guitar as Sylvia entered the coffee shop. She had cleaned up well from the afternoon's muddy disaster. She wore a deep-red, clingy wrap dress and heels, and her wild black hair was temporarily confined into a soft bun at the nape of her neck. She gave him a quick glance and went to the counter, ordered hot chocolate with a shot of coffee liqeur, then sat at a little round table near the door, ready to escape if things got embarrassing. His song drew her in over time."_

Here, Rick's voice sang a capella. He rarely sang around Kate for some reason, but she loved his voice, strong and clear with a surprising hint of country twang. He sounded so tender, so wistful.

_Even though we ain't got money  
I'm so in love with you, honey  
everything will bring a chain of love  
In the morning when I rise  
Bring tears of joy to my eyes  
tell me everything is gonna be all right..._

Kate's eyes started up with tears at the longing in his voice. This was her Rick, who'd hidden a gentle soul behind the mystery-writer-playboy facade. The tape went on.

"Sylvia_ leaned her chin on her hand, and the press of her arms deepened her cleavage, the liquid silver chain necklace rising slightly, surfing the swell of her breasts. Cade's nimble fingers missed a note. That hadn't happened during a performance in months."_

Rick's voice went low and seductive. Kate couldn't help smiling. Rick continued:  
_"He shot her a half-grin and wound the song down, paused, and looked at his play list. He'd planned to sing something silly – maybe "Smile Away" - which was a favorite because he could include the local regulars in the lyrics. Instead he sang Malvina Reynolds' "Turn Around":_

"_Where are you going, my little one, little one,  
Where are you going, my baby, my own?  
Turn around and you're two,  
Turn around and you're four,  
Turn around and you're a young girl going out of my door._

_This, of course, made tears come to Sylvia's eyes, because we were all children once. She'd she'd always wanted one of her own, but Bill wanted to wait till he'd published his first book. Ten years later, no book, no baby, because there's no such thing as the right time."_

A lump raised in Kate's throat. She vaguely gathered from listening in half-sleep that Cade had a daughter who'd died; but she knew that Rick himself was singing to Alexis. Johanna had sung this song to Katie as a child as well. Kate didn't even know Rick was aware of Malvina Reynolds. There was so much she needed to learn about this man, even after years. She'd been too damn busy running away.

Rick's voice was still reading at low volume on the tape.

"As their eyes met over Sylvia's hot chocolate, Cade was certain of only two things: One, that he was too damaged by life for this brilliant, complicated, delectable woman. Two, that he greatly desired to take her in his arms and kiss that little smear of whipped cream off the tip of her nose."

_End of Chapter Four. Please flip the tape to Chapter Five." _

Kate sat up and walked over to the tape player, and popped the cassette out. She went to the master bedroom and picked through her fiancee's clothes, discarding the sweatshirt and donning his black Henley and the windbreaker with his gun in its pocket. She double-checked that the safety was on, just to be sure. She opened her suitcase, already packed for the honeymoon, and put on dark jeans, socks, and lightweight hiking shoes. Found his set of spare keys and selected that of his restored Mustang convertible. On her way out of the house, she forced herself to eat a few bites, drank some water, and brought a bottle along with her, on instinct. Maybe she was dehydrated, because her mouth was so damn dry. Maybe she'd find Castle. Maybe he'd need a blanket and a sip of water. A bandaid, a kiss on a sore spot. Maybe he'd been blown to pieces so small a dog couldn't find him. Maybe she was completely delusional.

She opened the garage door, and checked the pockets for the local map. Montauk Highway 27, like every other suburban highway, runs interlinked with any number of frontage roads and side avenues leading off in every direction. Kate usually let Rick drive around here, just enjoying the view as the little hamlets and woods, strip malls, farm fields and beaches and ponds and strange little tourist attractions unfolded around her. So it was mostly a happy, tony, tree-lined blur, a landscape she hadn't absorbed. Now she unfolded the map, which gave somewhat more context at a glance than her tiny phone screen afforded. She smiled triumphantly, poring over it as the garage door light beamed down at her.

The map was at least fifteen years old, and Castle had taken notes all over it: circles, arrows, exclamation points, question marks, and stick-figure sketches. The map had been turned into a sort of medieval-looking illuminated manuscript, and Kate was reminded how easily Rick had taken to interpreting the murder boards. "Lobster Shack Here." "Cade Meets Sylvia Here." "Rocks where Sylvia falls in." "D & B's Grave." Blue and red colored-pencil arrows showing sleeper wave angles from rogue currents; the range of beams from the local lighthouses; prevailing winds. There was even a timeline at the bottom! "Sylvia born NYC 12/19/1943. Cade born Montauk 4/1/1946. S Married Bill 1962. Cade drafted 8/63, Cambodia 5/64. C wounded 8/66, discharged 10/66, diagnosed combat fatigue 12/66. C marries Dannielle 2/68. Bethany born 9/25/69. C&D divorce 5/70. D & B drown, 9/4/70, C goes into rehab 9/7/70, S divorces Bill 4/16/73, C&S meet 6/2/73." Kate murmured, "This isn't a romance, it's a soap opera, Castle." Date after date, sometimes hour by hour, the characters and situation were outlined, leading up to Sylvia discovering her younger lover ferrying draft dodgers to Canada to appease his own demons. Rick's firm handwriting: "Real love is worth risking everything."

Kate grinned. "Spoiler alert."

She took her heart in her hand, looked at today's crash site on the map, and there it was, a little X. It was so small, written in pencil, a bit smeared with that graphite sheen that made it hard to see in the rather low light. There was a tiny, simple drawing, too: a saltbox cottage in what was now a nature preserve between the Montauk Highway and Sagaponack Road. Rick had written "Way Station/ Bomb Shelter/ Converted Wine Cellar. Explore as set piece." That had been lined out, replaced with a single "!"

"That's almost too easy," she frowned. She popped the cassette into the player, and cranked it up full blast as she started up the Mustang and pulled it out into the driveway. As the sunrise began barely to lighten the sky behind her, she headed southwest, mightily enjoying her fiance's description of the Cade and Sylvia's shared erotic demolition of a lobster roll as she made for Sagaponack Road.

***

Rick laid his forehead on his arm, exhausted and coughing. He thought back for inspiration from one of his favorite TV shows, cancelled too soon. "If you can't walk, crawl. If you can't crawl, find someone to carry you."

He was so tired. _So fucking tired_, and crawling indeed, with mites he'd picked up from the bat guano. He gritted his teeth. "If you can't find someone to carry you, just keep hitching your way through the shit till something changes." Not exactly poetic, or even succinct. His head sank to his arm again. The fumes were overwhelming. His eyes started to close.

Up ahead of him, sitting on the floor petting his codfish/piece, Mephistopheles cleared his throat, and Rick raised his head. A bare silhouette of light was glinting off the horns. The demon scritched the lap-codfish behind its gills and suggested, "Hitch your wagon to some shit?"

Rick struggled forward another six inches and stopped to rest again. The demon had receded, like a mirage or remarkably ugly rainbow, the same distance from him as before. Rick said, "Shut up." This time, his outreaching left hand found only the thinnest layer of poo on the floor. Another eight inches, and he was definitely down to a fairly smooth layer of dust. He was almost out, at least enough to find a place to lay his head down for awhile, and that was really something to look forward to. Six inches. Rest. Four inches. Rest. Castle's prone reach was a little over eight feet from up-stretched fingers to toe tip. Meph chuckled. "You're leaving a nice trail there." He kept going.

It took a long time to get his entire body clear of the guano pile, and of course the demon was right, he'd dragged a trail along with him. He finally let himself stop, sat up as well as he could, and tore the unspeakably filthy handkerchief off his face. He was seized with a desire to throw it as far away as possible, but realized that there could be another bat colony further down the tunnel, and he might need it again. The thought made him even dizzier and sicker than he already felt. He shook it out and folded it into his pocket, with the sad understanding that there was almost no difference between the clean and dirty sides. Sitting up, he could feel something like a cool breeze, and realized that the tunnel, exiting at southeast, might even face the dawn. He lay back down, for just a moment's rest, and closed his eyes. Meph was there again. "Did you ever wonder why the last thing at the bottom of Pandora's box was hope?" he leered.  
"Oh, I'm sure you're gonna tell me," Rick croaked.  
"Because it's the greatest evil of all. Makes humans do all kinds of stupid things. Wishful thinking. You should've let Kate Beckett walk away the day that first case ended."

"Why's that?"  
"Well, really. If you're so good at getting into a murderer's head, how much further is it to..."

"Shut up."  
"You've heard the testimonies. 'I just grabbed the knife. I just pulled the trigger. I was so mad. I didn't realize what I was doing. It just happened. I was in a daze. I was so scared."

Rick said, "It's dissociation. It's common. Soldiers in battle..."  
"What will you say when you testify in court, Rick? ' I thought he was going to kill me first.' _Right_."

"It's true."

"Are you kidding? He was toying with you. You had plenty of time to run away. He was your brother, _and you both knew it_. He'd still be alive if it weren't for you. You goaded him into a fight because you were scared he'd just take you somewhere and torture you. Will you tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth? Didn't it feel good to beat the living shit out of him? Didn't it feel good to watch the flames spill over his body? Didn't it feel good to hear him scream?"

Rick paused, sick with shame, whispered, "Kind of."

"The truth, Rick. Where there's a light... there's a shadow."

"Yes, but..." He moved his right hand and it knocked against a piece of fallen concrete. He yelped in pain. Flames started to leap out of the walls and he realized that he was probably running a fever now, probably hallucinating. Probably.


	9. Chapter 9

Oh, I'm gonna be in trouble now. ;-)

* * *

_I can feel the soft silk of your blouse  
And them soft thrills in our little fun house  
Then the lights go out and it's just the three of us  
You me and all that stuff we're so scared of  
Gotta ride down baby into this tunnel of love_**  
Tunnel of Love, Bruce Springsteen**

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 9 – Dark at the End of the Tunnel**

Kate arrived at the preserve's gated entrance and peered through the woods to the bright floodlights at the crash scene, nearly a mile away. Really, she should just go straight there, tell them what she'd found. But she was afraid they'd make her go home again, that they'd think she was grasping at straws. Maybe Esposito would back her up, but none of Kloskins' people were likely to believe it: she was convinced Richard Castle had set a trap for a serial killer on the way to his own wedding. It might have backfired... but maybe, just maybe, Castle had lived to spin another tale.

The preserve was gated, and she parked Castle's vintage Mustang on the side of the road. She popped the trunk and pulled out the unwieldy emergency kit that Castle insisted on keeping in every vehicle (which she'd actually complained about since the Mustang's trunk barely had room for a postage stamp). Space blanket. Bandages. Tire iron. Rope. Crappy old glow-in-the-dark flashlight with fading incandescent bulb. Between pockets and hands, that was all she could comfortably carry, with reasonable freedom of movement. She wished she'd thought to bring a rucksack. Hiking in toward the little Visitor's Center, a converted caretaker's cabin, she gave up on the flashlight and used her phone to navigate, aiming the beam low and praying she wouldn't attract attention from the crash scene. She found the info kiosk on the porch, the only light in the area. Mosquitos and moths flitted around the amber-colored fixture, and to Kate's surprise, a bat flitted by, snapping bugs out of the air, its shadow huge and fluttering on the porch pillars.

It was hard to read the site map because of the glare and moving shadows, but she gave her eyes time to adjust and perused a bit of the historic info, trying to get her bearings. What was the nature of this place? A colonial farm since 1647, then a Revolutionary War battle ground, then a farm again for 120 years. Then a Roaring 20s private estate (with a hidden speakeasy and bootlegging tunnel!) destroyed by fire, rebuilt postwar and burned down again. Now donated to the public and converted into a scenic area with "something to interest just about anyone". She read:

"_Follow Path C, ¼ mile to the Hoskins Estate Ruins. Watch for bobcat and skunks on the trail. Little Brown Bats are known to nest in the abandoned wine cellar, which is closed to the public. But you may hear the rustle of tiny wings, and their echolocation clicks as they enter and exit at dawn and dusk. Note: Park closes one hour after sunset. No camping permitted." _

Kate found the trail head and closed her eyes a few moments, adjusting them to almost total darkness amongst loosely clustered pines, birch, and starlight. Then she set off for the burned foundation. As she grew closer, she could hear a deep engine rumbling, and up at the roadside, a flatbed was delivering a backhoe to the crash scene. It was going to be a piece of work getting it down the embankment without tipping: they'd have to drive it in from a side road where it was less steep. Were they going to begin digging? For what?

She didn't want to give any indication that she was there, but she texted Esposito, her heart thundering. _"Can't sleep. Any news?"_

_"Nothing so far. Crater under car showed no sign of him xcept residual scent. Lots of broken concrete. Don't give up. Try 2 rest, see you sunrise, bro."_ She smiled, snorting back a little sob. He'd called her "bro".

She walked a little further, and saw a deeper, hulking blackness in a shadowed copse of trees. The mansion had been quite large, perhaps 50m by 100m, with a c-shaped courtyard and the battered remnants of an art deco fountain. The foundation was stone, and all the fallen wood had been cleared away. She stayed low, the beam of her phone light pooling pale-blue over the foundation's contours, which in some places was still faced with smooth marble, although it was mossy, cracked, and coated with layers of graffiti. At the north end of the foundation's basement, she found the old 'wine cellar' doorway, actually the entrance to the speakeasy. The door itself had once been wood, but had been replaced years ago with a metal door bolted into place, and bars bolted across that. There was a little window, unglazed, only about the size of a postcard. She'd have trouble even getting her fist through it. Below was a little placard:

_"Your park service dollars created this habitat  
for our local, threatened bat population.  
Please do not disturb our winged friends. _

_Did you know?  
A single bat can eat its own weight in mosquitoes every night." _

Kate wondered about that. If the bat's weight doubled, then did it eat exponentially more mosquitoes every night? She whispered to her inner Rick, _"Shut up and let me think, Castle."_

She put her phone to the window, trying to peer past it. Nothing but darkness, and a partially collapsed wall on her left. She wondered if the local quakes from fracking might have damaged the tunnel.

* * *

Castle didn't see Kate's phone flashlight beaming through the iron bars on the window, forty feet away. He didn't hear Kate calling "Castle? Rick? Castle, are you in there? CASTLE? CAN YOU HEAR ME? Oh, God, Rick, please be in there. Please, you have to be in there. _Please!" _He didn't hear her banging on the plate with a tire iron (neither did anyone else, because that backhoe was a son-of-a-bitch). He didn't hear her say, "I know you're in there. I'm coming back with a tool kit. We'll get you out..." She sighed and headed back toward the car. A few moments later, a white shape appeared out of the shadows among the trees. There was a local legend, going back to times when moccasined feet trod the paths, of a White Lady of the Swamps who lured people to their doom.

This was not that White Lady. This was Kelly Neiman, all dressed up to marry Rick Castle. In Kate's wedding dress, which she'd stolen from the cabana the previous evening.

* * *

Speaking of _"in love with the sound of your own voice,"_ Mephistopheles was at the stage of wanting to buy his voice candy, flowers, and black lacy lingerie. Maybe settle down, raise a few demons of his own. Rick wasn't sure whether the voice was in his head or not. "The berserkers talked of the joy of battle. Went to Valhalla drinking the blood of their enemies, not caring who they killed or why. But we're artists. When we plan, there's a cold, sweet, ephemeral joy. Like ice cream. A good murder is like an ice cream sundae and getting to lick the bowl. Not a drop of evidence left behind. You could do better than anything you've ever imagined. Anything you've ever seen. You could be the greatest serial killer that ever walked the earth."

Mephistopheles went on and on, droning through the litany of every fictional murder Richard Castle had ever written, every real murder case Rick had ever worked on. And with each one, a ghost emerged from the broken brick-and-concrete walls, and sat or stood or crowded or even oozed like slime from the ceiling above him. And they were all calling his name, and now among them he could hear the voices of those he thought to be living, crying out in desperation. And strange sounds, booming as of metal on metal, the grinding and pinging of something like gears or tools.

He started crawling, unable to determine where the sound was coming from. He was crawling through rubble, a place where the concrete had fallen, exposing older brick and then dirt. The bodies of the fallen seethed around him, and he could faintly hear them gibbering, feel the flutter of tiny wings. He tried to call out, but his mouth was dry, nearly glued shut and gritty with dust, bug parts, droppings that he couldn't even clean out with his filthy hands.

* * *

Beckett hurried to the Mustang and returned within ten minutes, carrying a small but heavy reusable shopping bag she'd found in the trunk. It contained a metal tool box along with her other stuff. Her dad's father had taught her how to change tires and spark plugs as a girl, and she could do basic maintenance on her Harley. So she knew her way around a tool kit. She also knew the walk better now, and it took her less time, with no flashlight, to get back to the old foundation. If her eyes tricked her, and she saw a hint of white mist amongst the old walls, she gave it no mind.

She started out by spraying penetrating lube on the bolts, letting it work its magic as she selected the right size wrenches. This tool kit was old. Thank God the park system hadn't yet converted to metric. "I guess they didn't want anyone breaking in here and stealing valuable darkness," she grumbled. She had to put an extender on the handle to get better leverage. Even then, the bolts were stiff. She prayed gratitude for every pullup she'd ever done as she removed bolt after bolt; two from each of two crossbars, which she then had to pry away; then one from each corner. The ratchet sound horribly loud. Intrigued by the noise, a Northern Mockingbird started up somewhere in the woods (either that or it was 4 am and Rick's stupid kitchen clock had started up by itself). She realized first light was really only minutes away, and she was expected to report in. Ryan would be awakening any moment and find her gone. The FBI would be following up on the Escalade and the woman's footprints, obviously Kelly Neiman's. But they might never let Beckett look in here... not until it was too late. Just then she lurched aside, startled, as a smelly cloud of bats flew out the little window, neatly dodging her face and hair as they panicked out into the darkness. She caught her breath, actually grateful for the shot of adrenaline that would make her stronger. "Well, that was very Scooby-Doo," she grumbled. "Okay. Here goes."

She grabbed the tire iron and started to pry the plate (it wasn't really a door) open. Here's a little secret about Katherine Houghton Beckett: everyone is afraid of something. Kate was afraid of a lot of sensible things: serial killers, tax audits, global climate change... but she was also afraid of one silly thing. Spiders. She'd finally pried the plate off its frame and, cursing her lack of gloves, strained to push a larger gap. Then she heard the tiny, brittle, distinct, tearing sound of black widow spider webs. She hated those nasty, red-hourglass, glossy assassins that hung around waiting for her in the woodpile at her parents' cabin when she was a kid. And of course they were still lurking there like eight-legged grenades of death when she'd stayed there for her recuperation. There were black widows here, now, waiting. She swore, overcome by a few seconds of unreasoning, fight-or-flight panic. They were probably streaming out to greet her right now, crawling up her pants legs, up her sleeves, down her collar... her cold sweat renewed, and she wanted to scream and jump out and flail around uselessly, tearing at her hair. Oh, she'd put up a brave front around Castle that time they found the body in the attic. But inside she'd had a fleeting illusion that mummified corpse was all wrapped up in white webbing, and that something poisonous was waiting for them, lurking in the shadows... "Get a grip, Beckett!" she seethed. If anyone was gonna scream like a little girl, it wasn't gonna be her. Not today.

She pushed the bag ahead of her and dropped it onto the floor, then squeezed the right half of her body into the crack and planted a foot on the inside wall, her back against the plate, and shoved with all her considerable strength. It was tight, even for her slim frame. She called "Castle? Rick, are you there?" And she could have sworn she heard something move, something heavy. Dragging. On the ground. She froze, calling more softly, because what if it wasn't him? What if... "Babe, is that you?" Her voice echoed, and she heard another movement. She was still wedged there, panting, straining to see into the tunnel, when she felt a hand clamp her shoulder and a sharp prick in the left side of her neck.

Anyone who tells you "there's nothing as dangerous as a dull knife" hasn't experienced either Kate Beckett's reflexes or the vicious point of her elbow in their ribs. Partly wedged in an ironclad doorway full of spiders, she was still a formidable opponent. The woman in white grunted, doubled over, then fell back away from her, a syringe clattering away amongst fallen stones. She was hidden in the deep shadow of the foundation, pale face and long gown ghostly in predawn twilight.

Kate gasped, bewildered. She'd been flower girl at her parents' wedding when she was four. She barely remembered her mother, and for a fleeting moment... a child's voice inside her mind cried out joyously, desperately, _"Mommy?!"_ But her mother was dead, gone, and this solid person was no ghost. Kate felt a slight buzzing at the pinprick and realized she'd been drugged. Praying she hadn't received too big a dose, she snarled, "Who are you? And what the hell are you doing in my dress?"

Rosie laughed softly. "Improvising." She took on Kelly's voice. "Don't you remember me from the plastic surgery office?"

"Kelly Nieman."

"The same. Michael's partner."

Kate whispered, "Michael? You mean Jerry Tyson? He's dead, Kelly. This can stop right now. 3XK has no power over you any more."

"What, no power over _me_? Are you a feckin' eejit?" She stepped closer to Kate, who was leaning against the iron plate, breathing hard, fighting nausea as a buzz spread out from the jab. "I'm the one with the power. _I'm his muse._" She gestured at the dark hole. "These Rodgers boys are alike in more ways than one. They need focus. They only hold the _seeds_ of greatness. We're their water and sunshine. You and me, Kate. We're the perfect ones. They just tag along, hoping for inspiration."

Kate was gasping for breath. "Is Castle in here?"

"I'd been chattin' your man up through the bars, the last twenty minutes or so before you came along with your nice toolkit. He's batshite crazy, but he's still kicking."

Castle didn't hear Kate slump in the doorway, drugged. Rosie shoved Kate inside with all her strength, picked up a shoulder bag she'd hidden in the shadows, and stepped over her. The lace overlay on the gown tore away, sighing down to shroud Kate like discarded spiderwebs.

* * *

"Rick. Richard Castle."

"Go away," he whispered. "You're not real."

"Is that any way to talk to your muse?" Rosie's hand patted Castle's cheek. His eyes drifted open, and he was looking into the shadowed face of a beautiful woman in a white dress.

Rick had seen Johanna's wedding photos in the framed photo on Beckett's bedroom wall, enough times to recognize the unique dress. The woman before him certainly looked familiar, and her slim hand on his jaw was gentle and soft. She had long, wavy, caramel-colored hair in an updo, her face barely lit by a small amber lantern. In the shadows, she looked like Kate. She looked very real.

"You're not Kate," he frowned. "Johanna?"

"Close your eyes, Lover. I'll clean you up a little." Her touch soothing over his forehead, he closed them, and Mephistopheles went to work. Castle felt something warm and wet on his face, no doubt the demon's tongue, lapping at him like Cletus the Big Red Hound that Alexis had watched obsessively as a child. He always wondered who followed that dog around with a barrel to pick up the droppings, but he'd never mentioned that to Alexis. Then one day when she was four, Alexis said, "What happens when Cletus poops?" and exploded into giggles. The next day she moved on to Rainbow Reader. Rick kept his eyes close, grateful for the small comfort, feeling his face being cleaned off. Rosie cleaned his left hand, then she went for his right. He screamed in pain and snatched it away, and without either of them knowing it, his cry brought Kate out of her darkness at the end of the tunnel. His hand felt like a branding iron, and he wondered if he was getting an infection in the bullet wound.

Kelly said "Shh, be still, darling. I can take the pain away. Be still." He felt a little prickle in his bicep. His sore hand, no, the whole arm, started to lose feeling and then disappeared out of his ken altogether. It might as well have been in New Jersey.

For some reason, Rick wondered if he might be hearing a dog barking in the distance. The hounds of hell, perhaps.

He mumbled, "I am never gonna use the phrase 'One hell of an imagination' again."

Meph's voice was muffled by Rick's hearing loss but cool, beautiful. "You won, Rick. You did it. I'm yours." He felt gentle lips on his cracked, dry mouth; through the miasma of bat shit and dust, he smelled cherry lip gloss, and barely opened his eyes. "Kate?"

His face rang with a slap.

"Wake up." Rosie rocked back on her heels, scowling at him. "Of course it's Kate. Who else would it be?"

He tried to focus, but in this low light, it was so hard to tell. "Safe word," he rasped.

Rosie snickered. "Apples. Next question?" She handed him an open bottle of water. He rinsed the dust and bat droppings out of his mouth and spat to his side on the ground, then drank the whole bottle without even stopping to breathe, to taste the bitter-sweetness of some drug, masked by a fruit flavor. Enjoying his desperate thirst, Rosie loved moments like this, when she offered her prey kindness and they were flooded with hope of relief and escape. It made the fall so much steeper in the end, because they'd thought for a while that they had a chance.

"How did you find me?"

"Easy. Kate."

"So you're not Kate."

"Do you want me to be Kate?"

"I think I might be contused," he slurred. "Confudsed?"

"Stand up," she said. "Come on, they'll be starting the backhoe at dawn. We don't want to be in here." She tried to help him to his feet.  
He found old Petros sitting on his legs. The old man grinned at him in the dark. _"Murder me once, shame on you. Murder me twice, shame on me." _

"I won't be getting up. Hey, are you perending to rescue me?" His head went from fuzzy to woozy. "Do I shound drunk?"

"Just in time," Rosie grinned. She called out of the tunnel. "A little help here?"

The figure of a man crowded through the gap, stumbling over Kate's unconscious body. "Jeep's outside," he said calmly.

Rick stared hard, trying to focus on the new arrival's face in almost complete blackness. "Perlmutter?"

Perlmutter's voice dripped with sarcasm. "Why, Mr. Castle. Fancy meeting you here."


	10. Chapter 10

**Too Soon Chapter 9: Hounds of Love**

_"It's in the trees! It's coming!"_

When I was a child:  
Running in the night,  
Afraid of what might be

Hiding in the dark, Hiding in the street,  
And of what was coming after me...

Now hounds of love are hunting.  
I've always been a coward,  
And I don't know what's good for me.

Here I go!  
It's coming for me through the trees.  
Help me, someone! Help me, please!

**Kate Bush, Hounds of Love **

Betsy the Wonder Hound had burned her nose. She'd sniffed a hot ember in her enthusiasm to find Pillow Case Rick, let out a yelp, then sank into a funk. It wasn't too bad, but it had made her grumpy. Her devoted handler, Mohammed Atah, considered taking her home, but Wilbur was still on the job and raring to go. Mo decided to just pick up some extra food and a couple of dog toys at the local mini mall in East Hampton. Go to the park, take a break. Let Betsy find something.

Actually Betsy's funk was not about the blister on her nose, which she found a minor irritation. Betsy, like all great hounds, was actually a princess, and one of the Twice-Named (technically, Thrice-): She had started out as Elizabeth Regina of Eastern Star and the Tennessee King. Her handler's daughter, Nuwwar, called her Cutie-Patootie. She was a blue-tick bloodhound whose line went back three-hundred years. She and her ancestors were bred and born to round up the good, the bad, the delicately scented, and the very smelly: lost children, runaway slaves, escaped murderers, stolen horses, contraband, you name it. In this case, Betsy was puzzled. Betsy was perplexed. Betsy was frustrated, and she was curious. And she was very, very disappointed in herself.

We have words. Dogs have smells. And most of us – people and dogs - have standards to which we hold ourselves. Some higher than others, of course.

The average modern American can recognize and easily use 4,000 to 10,000 words on a regular basis, while a highly educated person might use upwards of 20-25,000 words. Unfortunately too many of those words tend to be "dude," "ok," and "motherfucker". Shakespeare actively used more than 30,000 words in his written works. (We can bet that if Scrabble had been invented at that time, he would have cheated a little bit.) By contrast, all talking dog videos aside, canines don't use their mouths to form words much, although they can be taught to understand over 150 human words.

The average human can distinguish about a trillion scents. But a bloodhound, bred and trained, can distinguish 1000 times as many different scents as a human. Bloodhounds have a hanky-sized area of smell distinction wrapped through sinuses and into the brain, creating a mental image of their quarry, a mental map of their behavior and movements. But even beyond that, Betsy was the Smelling Shakespeare of Bloodhounds.

Upon arriving at the crime scene (and she knew by the smells of anger hanging in the air that there had been a murder), Betsy learned a few things about the red-haired girl and the young Irish cop almost instantaneously. The cop was a new father who had changed his daughter's diaper recently, and very carefully washed his hands twice thereafter plus used hand sanitizer. There were a few spots of breast-milk-spitup on his sleeve cuff. He had punched a man wearing Old Spice Cologne. The baby's mother was ostensibly vegetarian but had sneaked a bite of someone else's linguica omelette for breakfast, and the garlic put the baby off a little. The young cop had cried within the last five hours and had exposed himself to a chemical soup from the burning car down below. Just yesterday he had made love to his wife for the first time since the baby's birth, and the shared orgasm had been spectacular. He was steeped in her pheromones and deeply in love.

The girl Alexis - really a young woman - was halfway through her menses. That day she had touched or embraced 43 other women, each of them wearing approximately 23 different beauty products, and she had touched or embraced 57 men, although none of them in a sexual way. She wasn't in love with anyone, but she had a few possibilities on the back burner. She had experienced a trauma in the recent past that made her constantly cover fear, and this trauma only compounded that buildup of tension in her young body. Alexis had eaten vegetarian bacon product (Betsy wondered what the hell was wrong with people) and scrambled eggs with toast for breakfast and nothing since except a glass of lemonade. She had a tiny cut on her right hand, which she had not bothered to bandage. Her dress had been made of threads boiled away from the pods of 3,227 silkworms.

Betsy examined what Alexis and Ryan had in common. They were distantly related on her father's side and both his parents', going back about seven generations to a place in northern Europe where they were well-adapted for low levels of sunlight and moderate heat. They were frightened, exhausted, shocked, saddened, and they were looking for someone they loved. They both liked dogs. They both hoped beyond hope that Betsy would find the person they were looking for. They loved many people in common. They had both eaten salmon mousse sandwiches for dinner, but the girl had eschewed both the figs and the asparagus. Betsy liked broccoli ok, but she hated asparagus. Sometimes humans baffled her.

Atah handed her the pillowcase used by Rick Castle. Oh, this man. _Oh_. Alexis' father. Ryan's friend.

"That's Rick. Betsy, can you find Rick? Where's Rick?"

Mo let her and Wilbur familiarize themselves with the strongest scent on the pillow, ruling out the cross-scents of others who had handled it: a woman who'd slept on it with him, a maid who'd put it on the bed, and Alexis who had removed it.

Of her 172 human words, she knew the most important one among them was "love." Atah said it to her all the time, in her most favorite growly-lovey dog voice. "Good girl. Who love you, Betsy? Mo love you. Yeahhhh, good girl." And she knew it was true. She could smell it in Mo, and in Mo's family, she could smell love in Wilbur, the friendship-love that Mo felt for Freeze, the frustrated desire that Freeze felt for Mo. Overall she could smell about 27 different kinds of love, and several manifested in her triangulation between the girl, the young cop, and Pillow Case Rick.

The smells talked to one another, telling the story to Betsy's excited brain. "_First the important thing: Alexis' father loves dogs but occasionally pets cats. So he is a good man,"_ but in her opinion, "_not a great one. Between the things he puts on his hair, in his mouth, and on his skin, he uses 12 different products in the course of a day. This pillow case is from a beach house approximately 5 miles away from here. He lives there sometimes, and sometimes in Manhattan in the upper west side; he enjoys coffee, red wine, milk chocolate, and single-malt whiskey. He seeks adrenaline to hide a depressive streak. He got very sick a few months ago and still has scarring on his liver, it was some kind of organic toxin..." _She snuffed. It was a poison she didn't recognize, but its traits made her wonder how he had survived._ "He likes to read paper books in bed, and he is in love with a woman who sometimes shares this pillow with him. And she loves him right back. She just ovulated." _

Betsy's nose cast around; _"Pillow-Woman's prints are on the ground, the scent of her perfume and tears still hang in the air. She was wearing something of her mother's, but it was old, about thirty years old, from the woman's childhood. The mother's scent is masked by dry clean chemicals and perfume and time, but still hangs about her like a protective ghost. Rick's mother wears too much perfume, and she loves her but she's worried. Her father was here, holding her. He cried too. She wears cherry-scented lip gloss, among many other things. The woman used to take hormones to prevent conception but the dose has worn away and not been renewed. She had sex three times over the last two days with Rick, this man she loves past bearing. An egg has been fertilized but is not yet implanted in her uterus, and may not be. She bites her lip a lot. Right now she is, like the girl and cop, full of fear and grief, and the beginning simmer of a terrible rage. But this woman also likes dogs and is therefore a Good Person." _Betsy surmised _"Pillow-Woman is also looking for Rick."_

Betsy continued to survey the scene. She stepped up to the flag by footprints in the gravel at the roadside. She stopped a moment, smelling Rosie's prints. She snuffed in dislike and recognition, sweeping the ground with her ears, trying to pick up all the traces.

_"This woman wears almost thirty cosmetic products including a rose oil component in her perfume. She has traces of several different drugs circulating through her system – antidepressants, stimulants, anesthetics, antipsychotics, caffeine, blood pressure regulators, nicotine... the woman smokes, and the beginnings of cancer have left traces on her breath. She'll be dead in five years if she doesn't stop, maybe even if she does. There are other chemical smells: Disinfectant. Alcohol. Formaldehyde. Death. Masked and masked and masked again but there. Deaths I know. People I've looked for but haven't found. She knows where they are." Betsy moaned to herself, torn between knowledge and duty. "But I'm looking for Pillow Case Rick now. Pillow Case Rick." __Betsy was a well-trained detective. She didn't normally make leaps of logic. There was no reason to think that Rosie meant Rick himself any harm. But she felt uneasy. _

At Jerry Tyson's footprints, her tail began to wag, and she moaned a little again, but did not bark or bay. Wrong scent. "_Another man stood here. The man is clearly Rick's brother, on both sides, and they were about the same age. Not so many chemicals. He's sick. He's on antibiotics for a lung infection that just won't go away."_

Wilbur disagreed. _"This _is_ Pillow Case Rick. They smell almost exactly the same."  
"Almost. They're brothers. What's different?"  
Wilbur's tail tucked between his legs. "I dunno, but I don't like it. Are they different?"_

She smelled something she'd smelled before, on traces left by Jerry Tyson and Kelly Nieman. Most recently at a mass grave site on the beach, where serial killers – more than just them, there had been others - had been dumping bodies for years. Shallow graves and deep ones, revealed among the dunes by the smiting hand of the hurricane.

What she smelled? She had no word for it, but it made her tail tuck between her legs a moment, too. We would have called it evil. The smell of seeking, stalking, killing, and enjoyment of the suffering, a blank indifference – no – incapacity for the compassion we think is ingrained in us. Inability to process oxytocin, a bonding pheromone. Other problems with processing stimulus and response. But Betsy could smell a difference. Rick's brother had grown into it, been twisted through injury like one of those sad little trees that aren't even worth peeing on. There were chemicals his brain made too much of, and chemicals his brain had given up on. He was broken to it. Rosie had been born that way. Her father had been that way. The bundle of eggs in her ovaries held blueprints for killers.

Wilbur found Rick's brother intriguing all the same. _"Here's where Brother walked down the embankment. Here's where he stopped to cough. Here's where Brother fired a gun." _He nosed at a bullet casing the forensic techs had missed.

Freeze stroked his ears. "Good boy, Wilbur. Where's Rick?"

_"I'm getting to that. Here's where Brother started back up again. Here's where he came back down. He stood here for a while..."_

* * *

Betsy, meanwhile, found enough about Rick to bay about – down by the burned car, among the weeds and muddy ashes. _"Here's where they fought, and here's where Brother died. And here's where Rick... ow." _

Her nose had touched an ember, lurking just under the car. She bayed. Rick did not answer. _"He's down there. He's still alive. Wilbur, come on. Show them he's still alive." _She bayed again. She whined. She did the Excited Prancy Dance. Wilbur didn't get it.

_Wilbur paused, apprehensive. "I smell flying monkeys."_

"Wilbur, you are such a stupid fuck sometimes."

* * *

Atah had made Betsy go back to the SUV. He'd taken her over to the mini-mall and picked up food in case they'd be there all night, while Freeze and Wilbur futzed around. At the mini-mall, Betsy smelled Rosie, who had parked the Escalade somewhere nearby. She barked at Rosie, who was smoking a cigarette, listening to the police scanner in a nondescript salt-stained green Subaru Forester that smelled of death and garbage. Rosie was wearing headphones, sunglasses, and a long, curly auburn wig. Rosie wished she could tell Mo that the woman was a killer, that she was listening to a police scanner that rang plainly to her own ears but that Mo couldn't hear. The dog hesitated, pointing at her with an eager nose, but Mo thought she was just interested in the burger joint spewing grilled goodness into the air.

Rosie's sunglasses turned toward Betsy and Mo, and Betsy sensed a cold, killing threat. She feared for herself, and for Mo. She hung close to Mo's side as they went into the variety store. The owner glared at them disapprovingly until Mo pointed out Betsy's Service Dog insignia on her vest. Behind them, the Subaru pulled out of the lot, heading east on the Montauk highway, toward Rick's house. But Mo was tugging on her harness. "Come on, girl, let's get some liver treats." She was disappointed not to be getting a nice smoked pig's ear, but Mo wouldn't let her have them. She sniffed. Apparently it was all right to eat lobster when his wife wasn't around to nag him, but pig's ears? Not Halal.

* * *

She and her boys were put up in a motel for a much-needed nights' sleep, and Mo roused her again shortly before dawn. She loved this hour of the morning, when there was less noise and pollutant in the air, and she could smell the nocturnal activities of everyone around her. She loved it except when they were on the road, and Mo cheated on his diet. The lobster roll farts were a living hell. She suffered every time Mo ate one of those damn things.

The dogs relieved themselves in the parking lot at the first scent of sunrise, and they had canned liver dog food, her favorite. Their handlers picked up a couple of fast food breakfasts. When they got back to the crash site at about 4 a.m., it was still quite dark. A backhoe had arrived at around 3, and it had taken nearly an hour for the crew to try maneuvering it to the bank, realize that no, it really _was_ going to tip over, back it up, load it back onto the flatbed, and have the flatbed take it around to a side road then come along a meandering path through the woods.

Betsy's nose burn was feeling quite a lot better, and she was anxious to get back on the trail. Mo let the two dogs out and she was horrified to see so many people there.

Apparently a lot of people liked Pillow Case Rick. Of course Betsy had no comprehension of the internet beyond that smell of ozone and fascination when Mo played video games or his wife got on Skype with their many relatives. But As Gina had predicted, someone had announced Castle's disappearance, and the news had gotten out. There were nearly fifty people milling around in the hushed predawn, including a couple of news crews whose transmitters just refused to work, people holding candles and teddy bears, leaving flowers, people trying to get around the yellow crime scene tape to put yellow ribbons up on tree limbs, being herded away by frustrated, exhausted police. One person was dressed as a gray man with big black goggles; he carried a sign that said "Beam Me Up Too." Betsy could smell a whole cocktail party full of emotions amongst these people: genuine sadness and worry, curiosity, fear, skepticism, hope, guilt... Guilt?

A slight, sour man stood amongst the crowd. He smelled of death, guilt, and peppermints. He accompanied a dead plastic lady thing in a wheelchair. Maybe she was his squeaky toy, only he humped her instead of chewing on her. Whatever. He knew something. But Betsy, being a dog, didn't know people called him Perlmutter, and she didn't know what he knew.

* * *

Perlmutter was gazing past the crash scene into the preserve on the far side. He'd noticed something, a brief, cold-blue flash of light: someone with a flashlight or phone. He smiled down to the doll, and patted her shoulder. "You were right." He turned, and wheeled it back to his rental car.

* * *

Puzzled, Betsy leaned against Mo's leg and he scratched her ears. "You wanna look around again, Girl?" She followed his lead, and they edged back down the bank toward the car wreck site. This time she sniffed more cautiously. Pillow Case Rick was definitely down there. His left hand had clung for several seconds to this iron bar, his other hand had left a microscopic scrape but too much blood and a whiff of gunpowder – now burned away – on this chunk of concrete. She whined, wanting to dig for him. She needed the rest of the story. She bayed, not in the joy of discovery, but in frustration.

* * *

Esposito was feeling pretty damn thrashed. He went to Deputy Holst "I'm just gonna take a quick catnap so I'm fresh when the FBI comes. Anything changes..."

Holst nodded. "Backhoe should be here soon." He sighed. "I wish to hell we had ultrasound. They're booked solid, it's been crazy around here lately."

"Really?"

"Yeah, man. We've had three teen girls just up and disappear over the last three days, now this. Thursday we got an anonymous tip about a gravesite down at Cherrystone Beach... serial killer, maybe more than one. Body parts." He sighed. "We're all run ragged: officers, dogs, coroner, detection devices, forensics..."

Esposito shook his head in sympathy. "Perfect storm, huh?"

"Yeah. They say it comes in waves, but... man I could use a night's sleep. But you go crash for a while, I got someone relieving me at 6 am."

Espo slept through the backhoe's arrival, its near-tipping, its removal and relocation. And deep in sleep, he missed Kate's text at 4:23 am: "Meet me at end of tunnel in old foundation. I think I know where he is." She should have called him, but she'd been afraid someone might hear her voice. That was actually the least of her worries.

What finally awoke him was Betsy, barking.

* * *

Bat guano supports an ecosystem all its own. Millions of different kinds of bacteria and fungi, and tiny bugs of all kinds who feed on the guano itself plus the fungi, further breaking it down. Then there are larger, predatory bugs who feed on the smaller: spiders, huntsmen, centipedes. Rick's right hand was nipped by a centipede as he dragged himself through, but he didn't even notice it, his hand being one big bundle of agony already. The centipede had just been defending itself, and scurried away. One of the bats above Rick (we'll call her Puff to avoid confusion) heard that tiny, alluring scurry, and feeling a bit peckish, swooped down on silent, lacy wings. She made short work of the centipede, Rick's blood still fresh on its tiny jaws. But Puff was still hungry. She continued down the tunnel toward the window opening, tilting at a 23º angle to slip through without banging her fingertips against the hard metal. Suddenly a bright, cold-blue light shone in her eyes, momentarily blinding them. She banked her wings, startled, but it was too late to stop; she closed her eyes and barreled through on echolocation, narrowly avoiding a young female human who jumped back, equally startled.

Puff continued on into the night sky, shaking the bright light out of her head. She noticed other bright lights over near the road, where a number of humans were milling about doing something incomprehensible. And there were dogs. Puff didn't like either humans or dogs, but the lights attracted mosquitos and tasty moths (she liked the fuzzy white ones best: big, fat, sweet, and easy to catch). In order to eat its weight in insects every night, a bat must have a very efficient metabolism. Puff flew about for twenty minutes, snapping fast food out of the air. The centipede was digested very quickly. But if you look at a centipede's exoskeleton in an electron micrograph, you'll see it's not perfectly smooth: millions of tiny pockets, claws, scaly shapes and hairs provide it protection and traction. In the remaining pieces of the centipede that traveled through Puff's body, a tiny trace – 3 parts per million – of Rick's dry blood passed unscathed in an air pocket.

Pursing a moth that was trying to hump a backhoe headlight, Puff dropped her tiny load of evidence a few feet from Betsy. Betsy, sniffing about, smelled Puff the Flying Monkey's droppings from a thousand nights, among those of many others. It's been mentioned that Betsy was the Shakespeare of Smell. She was also the Sherlock Holmes of Scent. Her new nickname was soon to become Little Canine Castle. Betsy homed in on Puff's bean-sized blob of fresh poo, sniffing delicately. She snuffed and wagged, inhaling. She groaned, then yipped, inviting Wilbur over.

Mo knew better than to distract Betsy, but gestured to Freeze: "Looks like Lassie found Timmy down the well again." Wilbur started to wag, searching, not yet too excited. Betsy woofed softly, her feet doing an eager dance. She felt the picture mapping out in her mind, infinitely fast and infinitely slow: "_The guano, the bat, the centipede, Pillow Case Rick, the bite, the tunnel of ancient earth, old brick, layers of concrete, moss and algae..."_ She had it all, she just had to read the map... she sniffed around, hoping for more information. "_Tunnel. Where? Where did the flying monkeys come from?"_ She turned in circles, barking at the sky.

Up the embankment in his car, Esposito awoke, shaking away nightmares of women in white and burning cars. He was tingling all over, and then he noticed the barking, and he was out the door and on his phone in a heartbeat. "Ryan. We got something. Move." He charged down toward the crash site. One of the dogs was excited, turning in circles. The other was still and looked like he was trying to remember where he'd left his squeaky toy.

Wilbur located Puff's poo, sniffed it. _"Flying monkey. Bug. Hey, is that Pillow Case Rick?_"

Wilber ate the poo. Betsy groaned in frustration, actually nipped at him. Mo held her back, concerned. She'd never done that before.

Wilbur tucked his tail, dejected. _"Sorry I ate the poo. I just couldn't... am I in trouble?"_ He whined, uncertain. The bat guano turned to slime in Wilbur's mouth, the scent receptors at the back of his sinuses calculating the amount of Rick-ness. He considered the way a connoisseur does a fine wine. _"Hey. I think it is Rick."_

But Betsy didn't care about that tiny dot of evidence any more. The inside of her head, her very being, lit up with joy, with certainty, as the map completed itself. _"THERE. HE'S THERE. I KNOW WHERE HE IS."_ She let out a bay that shook the trees, and took off running for the old foundation. To her surprise, she was nearly outrun by Esposito, who'd hurtled down the embankment and now sprinted toward the foundation, flashlight in hand. She'd smelled him around. She knew he was a good guy to have on her side.


	11. Chapter 11

I am so honored by the amazing enthusiasm for this story. It's been so much fun watching it unfold in my mind. There have been as many surprises for me as there have been for my dedicated little core of readers. Perlmutter really threw me for a loop and I had several days' panic wondering what the hell he was doing standing at the top of that bank. Help? Or hindrance? It could go either way. Really, I agonized over it until it became clear.

Thanks so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. A few more chapters to go now.

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 11 – Arlene**

_Nobody knows about my man._  
_They think he's lost on some horizon._  
_And suddenly I find myself_  
_Listening to a man I've never known before,_

_Telling me about the sea,_  
_All his love, 'til eternity._

_Ooh, he's here again,_  
_The man with the child in his eyes._  
_Ooh, he's here again,_  
_The man with the child in his eyes. - Kate Bush_

* * *

Kate lay on the floor of the old speakeasy, next to the exit, which was still mostly blocked by the skewed metal plate. She was half-draped in lace torn from the skirt of her mother's wedding dress. She lay still, stunned and fighting the medication, watching Kelly Nieman working on Castle in the muted amber glow from the old flashlight.

Castle let Kelly wash his face and hands, gave him water, then she pulled up his right sleeve and injected something into his arm. He was conscious, although filthy, and talking but barely coherent, babbling about demons or something. Someone else – a man of average height and build - stepped into the room, walked over Kate with barely a glance, and Kelly spoke to him. Then Castle, trying to focus, said a name that would have floored Kate had she not been there already. "Perlmutter?"

Perlmutter said, "They're about to start up with the backhoe. If you can't get him moving, you'll have to leave him. This whole tunnel will collapse."

Kelly said, "I thought you said you were going to throw them off the trail."

"Good luck! They have bloodhounds. I'd say you have less than five minutes before they let them loose again."

Kelly snarled, "Fuck."

Perlmutter turned and looked back over at Kate. "Is she already dead?"

"Probably not. If she's alive we can drag her out with us, take her along for playtime."

"Just as well."

He came back and knelt down to check on Kate, and placing a hand on her wrist, felt her pulse racing, something she couldn't hide or control. He whispered something so softly that Kate barely heard it. "She thinks I'm working for her. I'll get Castle out of here. Can you take her down?"

Kate hesitated. She wasn't sure whether this was actually Perlmutter, or, if he was, whether he could be trusted. She realized that this man actually did smell a little like Perlmutter, who was meticulously neat yet still had a bit of an odor issue. Betsy would have been proud. Taking a leap of faith, Kate barely nodded. She was lying on her right side, trying to get at her gun without moving too much. Perlmutter was not the type to pat her shoulder encouragingly. So he didn't.

Perlmutter said to Kelly, "She's out for the count. Won't be fun hauling her through that doorway. Let's get them out first, then fuss around."

Perlmutter hurried back to Castle and Kelly, taking care in the dark not to trip on bits of debris. "Come on, Mr. Castle," he sang out. "WAKE UP. Get your lazy ass up off the ground and stop letting other people do all your work for you." He added, "What's wrong with his hand?"

Kelly was making a sling from the black gaff tape she'd produced from her bag, essentially just taping Castle's forearm down across his upper belly. "Michael shot it. Hamate bone's smashed."

Perlmutter snickered rhetorically, "Will he ever type dreck again."

Castle said, "Pearly, you are the meanest man in the whole world." He sounded like a four-year-old. "Why don't you like me?"

"Because everything's easy for you."

_"It is not!"_

"Well, you make it look easy, which is even worse. Now get up."

The earth shook slightly. The bats gave it up, escaping into first light. Rick pouted. "I don't wanna. You're gonna lay me out on a slab an' eat me like a sandwich."

"Exactly right, Mr. Castle, a ham sandwich."

"So you're really Perm-Perlmutter."

"No. Of course not. I'm his double, that's how we do things in 3XK Land. Now come on, get up."

"No, no, no, no, no. You're definitely Perl-"

Perlmutter punched him in the mouth. "Shut up."

"Ow." Castle heard, more than felt, his jaws snap together, not too hard. "That wasn't much of a punch, Sidney. Maybe I should punch you back." He tried to raise his right arm, looked down at it taped to his body. "Hey, it's not working. Should I punch you with my left hand?"

"Way to telegraph."

Castle said, "I couldn't find my phone."

There was a deep rumble at the far end of the tunnel, and the ground shook. A few loose pieces of wall and ceiling tumbled down. Nothing big yet, but a stern warning. The backhoe was in place by the crater. Up above, the crew had no knowledge of the tunnel, or of the ground's instability in this area.

Kelly pulled a gun out of her bag and pointed over to where Kate lay beneath the lace shroud. "Get up, Castle, or I shoot Kate."

"I thought you said _you_ were Kate. Kate would never shoot herself. I think my tongue hurts." He was trying to get up now, hitching his back against the wall, Perlmutter hauling up on his left arm. "I sprained my ankle, you know. Thaaaaat hurt like a son of a bitch..." He beamed at Kelly. "I can almost not feeling it now."

Kelly poked through the video app on her phone. "You see this? This is Kate sitting on the floor of your bedroom, holding a gun to the underside of her chin."

"NO." He whimpered, staring at it. "Beckett? Don't do that. You know how it feels, don't..." Under the lace mantle, Kate held back tears. Castle was leaning against the wall, utterly disconsolate, sobbing.

Perlmutter grunted. "Let's take it outside, crybaby."

Kelly was adamant. "Look at her, Castle. Now if you want her to live through this, _you_ have to." She put the phone away and picked up the amber lantern. "Get your fine arse up and out."

Half-supported by Perlmutter, half-dragging himself upright against the wall, Castle was trying to sort it all out. "Why are you wearing her dress? Where's Kate?"

"I'll answer all your questions when we get to the Jeep. We're going for a little ride," said Perlmutter.

Castle mumbled "Can we get ice cream?" He was leaning on Perlmutter, staggering across the widened speakeasy floor to the entrance. Bats flew in, hoping to escape the bright work lights and settle down for the day. The ground rumbled again, and the bats created a panicked, musk-scented maelstrom, afraid to settle on the cracking concrete that comprised their roost.

Kelly said, "Any kind of ice cream you want, Rickyboy," and to Perlmutter, "Get him out of here. Put him in the back of the jeep and tarp him."

Perlmutter nodded. "Lucky for you that I take notes and I'm not an idiot." He nudged Castle forward. "Now, keep moving, lard-ass."

_"I am not..." _

"Let's just see you prove it. Squeeze through the doorway."

"But what about Beck- Are you mad? I know you have a crush-"

Perlmutter interrupted hastily, "I'm not Perlmutter. Kelly gave me a makeover. I just look like him..."

"You wouldn't let her die..."

"Go, go, GO!" Perlmutter was trying to shove him through. Castle was about 1/3 again Perlmutter's mass, and he'd been working out. Even dosed up with opiates and highly suggestible, Richard Castle was (as Betsy had surmised) basically a dog. He was loyal, and he had his priorities, and he was stubborn.

Seeing the woman on the floor, Castle didn't want to budge. "Is that you, Keckett? Bate?"

Kelly was standing over Kate, a gun pointing down at her. "Get out, Castle, or Kate's dead meat."

"Well, tha's just not fair."

"Life's not fair."

"People keep saying that but do they try anything about to fix? It? Huh?" He shook Perlmutter off. "Call off your dogs off." Perlmutter staggered back.

They all heard the dogs then. Baying.

* * *

Above ground, the backhoe, which hadn't even started digging yet, shifted as the earth beneath it began to crumble. It whipped back and forth as forensics officers and workmen scattered and ran. The driver jumped out and scrambled to safety, miraculously unhurt. The baying, scent-thrilled dogs, their handlers, and Javier Esposito ran desperately toward the mouth of the tunnel as the earth caved away behind them, catching up to them, opening up like the pit of hell with dust and tiny flying monkeys everywhere. The backhoe rocked, its arm snapping around like a scorpion's tail, and the whole thing toppled over sideways into the tunnel.

* * *

There was a woman's scream, and two shots fired. Perlmutter lunged at Beckett, but whether it was to help her or stop her from shooting Kelly... it was impossible for Rick to tell in the near-dark.

A black cloud of dirt and dust rolled from the backhoe to the tunnel entrance, and as the roof collapsed, the sky opened above them in a widening jagged rip, 100-year-old oak beams falling in slow motion. For a moment, Rick winced in a terror that he would normally have tried to conceal in a manly fashion.

He shut his eyes tightly. Petros stood next to him at the gateway. "You've already wrestled an angel. This part's easy. Get Kate out." Richard Castle braced his body and shoved the metal plate back and away from him with his full strength. He grunted and strained, desperate. He was wedged between two gates of pearl, and he wondered which side he'd wind up on. Finally the 300-lb metal plate crashed down into the old foundation with the clang of a church bell, but whether it was for a wedding or a funeral, nobody could be sure. Rick fell over on it and the ringing sound deadened. He then rolled over onto the ground onto his right arm, effectively crushing what he could not feel. He lay panting, trying to recover. The cloud of fine dust settled around him.

* * *

Javier Esposito came flying down off the banked side of the foundation, bellowing "NYPD! Everyone, hands up! Nobody move!" and then, when he saw that nobody was actually moving, "Aw, shit."

Castle was lying on his side, having just tumbled over some kind of large metal plate. He put his left hand up. The right wasn't going anywhere.

Espo hurried to him. "You're alive!" His bright expression immediately turned to worry. "Where's Beckett?"

Castle pointed at the slumped wall of earth. Maybe a beam had held. Maybe there was an air pocket. Maybe she'd been shot. Maybe she'd been hit in the head by a rock, smothered, strangled by Perlmutter...

The two bloodhounds, Betsy and Wilbur, found Castle and fell all over him, licking and kissing him, ecstatic. Betsy joyfully shoved a nose into Castle's crotch. Castle said, "Could you introduce yourself first?" and shoved her away, giggling, but she didn't care. Their handlers realized that despite Castle petting their silky ears and mumbling, "So soft!" the man was severely injured. They pulled back on the leashes. "Sit!"

Castle said, "No, I need to get up..."

Mo put his arms around Betsy, and gave her a Baco-bite.

"Good girl, Betsy. Gooooood girrrrrrllllll. Who's my good girl? Betsy's my good girl. You found Rick. Good girl."

Wilbur leaned toward Castle, loving him with the deepest love a dog can possibly feel, because for the first time in his life, Wilbur was meeting a man who also liked to roll in poo, and he knew they would be friends for life.

Castle tried to sit up. Wilbur's handler, Officer Freeze, stopped him. "Sir, please don't move. You're hurt."

"I'm ok, I can't feel a goddamn thing, where's my wife? Beckett?" He still couldn't use his right arm but got up on an ankle that just shouldn't have been working, and staggered over to Esposito, who was already scrabbling frantically in fallen dirt, beams, and concrete, trying to unearth a half-buried brunette woman in white. "Beckett!"

"Kate?" "Beckett!" Castle and Freeze, even the dogs joined in digging. Rick worked one-handed, kneeling on his recently-dislocated knee and his sprained ankle, forgetting completely that he would be in a world of pain when the meds wore off. Mohammed Atah radioed Sheriff Kloskins.

"We've got at least three people injured over here, end of the tunnel. See me waving?" He was signaling with his flashlight, standing on a heap of rock. "Call for backup ambulances." The ambulance that had been waiting all night at the top of the embankment roared off, heading east, siren screaming. The sound was deafening as the dogs began to howl, the doppler effect echoing crazily amongst the stone ruins of the house as the ambulance found the side road two miles east and then doubled around south and west toward them, making for the back way to the entrance gate of the preserve. It didn't even pause; someone had already opened it. A darkened jeep roared to life in the tree-shadows near the visitors center, its beams piercingly bright now, and careened down the path toward them, followed by the ambulance.

Gates and Tori jumped out of the jeep and dashed to the foundation, flashlights in hand, the beams slicing white through the rolling dust clouds, illuminating nothing. They all heard the dulcet tones of Captain Victoria Gates. "NYPD!" Gates announced. Pulling out their service weapons, she and her accompanying officer continued forward, picking their way through the ruins. She turned to her companion. "Tori, can you help guide the paramedics down here, and radio for additional medical?"

"Yes, Sir." Tori ran back the way she'd come.

Gates rushed forward. Catching sight of Rick, she gasped, "Mr. Castle."

"I'm, uh, I think so. I'm on drugs," he smiled apologetically. Then he burst into tears. "I can't find Beckett."

"My God. She's in there?" Gates turned to Freeze. "Get back to the crash sight and have them bring those floodlights down." She glanced up at the sky. "By the time the sun's actually up it might be too late, if it isn't already..." She was on her knees with the others. "Where did you last see her?"

The woman in white groaned, then shouted, "Feckin' piece of shite, I'll teach you to turn on me..." Strong hands clamped down on her shoulders and Rosie screamed, fighting like a wildcat as Javier Esposito lifted her bodily out of the wreckage. Beckett had shot her in the right shoulder, and Espo didn't really feel too bad about squeezing the wound as he pulled her out.

Gates glared at the woman Esposito struggled to restrain. "Ma'am, I suggest you calm down." Kelly was wearing Johanna Beckett's decimated wedding dress and her wig was askew. The bloodstain of a bullet graze bloomed on her right shoulder. She was twisting like a wildcat. A hand shot up out of the rubble and grabbed at her skirt, yanking furiously.

In a shower of dirt clods and beam splinters, Kate Beckett emerged, snarling, "Get the fuck out of my mother's dress, you fucking bitch!" She used the dress like a handhold, crawling up Rosie's body as the serial killer struggled and screamed.

Castle sat back clumsily on his ass, trying to avoid the skirmish, stared at his wife (because in his mind he'd married her over a year ago) and said in wonder, "Best Bridezilla ever!"

Kate ripped and tore, Rosie's bare legs flashing, then from the dirt, another pair of arms - Perlmutter's - reached around Rosie's ankles and restrained her feet. The fragile fabric gave way, and Kate stood triumphantly before Kelly Nieman, clutching the bloody rags of her mother's wedding dress in her arms.

Gates exclaimed "Detective Beckett, restrain yourself!" She waded in to help Perlmutter divest himself of dirt and rocks. He had a bloody gash on his forehead, and when he'd jumped into the fray, Kelly had shot him in the thigh instead of Kate. He looked immensely proud of himself.

Kelly was reduced to a lingerie ensemble that Kate recognized as her own, the killer's enhanced, scarred C-cup breasts barely decent in a B-cup bra. "If I can't wear the dress, nobody can," Kate growled. Gates stepped in to help Esposito cuff Kelly.

Kate said, "If you behave, I might let you keep the underwear."

Esposito grinned. "Remind me never to borrow your clothes."

Then Kate dropped the rags on the ground, and looking around for Castle, saw him sitting on a rock, wide-eyed as a child. He stared at her, so happy, and said, "Hi!" The sun finally edged over the horizon, lighting the tree branches above with lemon and amber, but they were all still shadowed by ruins. She put a hand over her mouth, her tears streaking tracks through the dirt on her face, and hurrying toward him, she crouched down, and they smiled joyfully.

Rick said, "I'd hug you but I can't stand up."

Beckett knelt before him, throwing her arms around him. "I'm so glad you're ok."

"Can't feel a thing. Dunno bout OK."

"I don't know what that bitch gave you, but I want some."

"Nah," Castle said. "Come here." She nodded and swung a long leg over to straddle his lap, pulling his head against her breast, and he could hear her breath rasping with sobs, her heart beating wildly. "Hey, is that my Henley?" he squawked, then kissed her through it, right on the place that marked her heart, the place where her scar lived. He felt absolutely thrilled to see her, but sort of pissed that everything was still fuzzy, blunted. He leaned into her, his left arm tight around the small of her back. Listening, listening, as her heart and breathing slowed. He could feel _her, _even though he could barely feel himself.

They stayed there a long moment, ignoring the paramedics who hovered over them. The paramedics said, "We need to take a look at him."

Castle said, "Go away." The look Beckett gave them was so terrifying, they handed her an emergency blanket, gave up and went to Perlmutter and Rosie, both of whom had minor gunshot wounds and a great many bruises and contusions.

"Kate," Castle whispered, and patted her on her back to get her attention. "Kate? Kate."

She broke her hold a moment and looked at him deeply. He reached up and cupped her lovely jaw in his good hand. He was starting to feel too much now, both physically and emotionally. Starting to remember things he didn't want to remember. The adrenaline of the cave-in and looking for her had made him burn through the opiates quickly. A lump formed in his throat.

They both said the same words at the same time. Hers were spoken with sympathy, with understanding, with kindness. His with grief, with anger, with a hollow sense of loss:

"I know who the killer is."

* * *

Esposito and Gates hauled Rosie away from the rubble, still screaming. "This is police brutality. I'll make you pay. I'll make you all pay, I'll hunt down every goddamn one of you and crochet your guts into a feckin' hair scrunchie!"

Gates arched an eyebrow at her. "How quaint."

Ryan had arrived with Lanie. He said, "It's an Irish thing. Gift of gab."

Perlmutter shook his head. "That's not Irish. That's just plain ol' garden variety psychotic."

Lanie murmured, "Do you have to read her rights if she's a complete basket case?"

Esposito shook his head. "I dunno, she might not even hear them with all the squawking."

They helped the paramedics strap Rosie down on a gurney. She writhed in Kate's stolen underwear, and they all realized she was covered with DIY plastic surgery scars.

Ryan turned his gaze away, scratching his head. "Yeah, that's disturbing." A paramedic covered Rosie with a blanket, and they strapped her down again, just to be sure.

Rosie started screaming again. The paramedics looked at one another, shrugged, and started the laborious process of wrestling her gurney out of the rubble. Sheriff Kloskins had come down by this time, along with Deputy Holst, each with 2-day shadow and a look of extreme relief that things were coming together. "Thank you, Captain Gates. Sorry about the backhoe."

Gates shook her head. "In perfect circumstances, you'd have waited for the geo ultrasound, but things came to a head so quickly." She turned to Holst. "Make sure Dr. Nieman's constantly under guard with someone you know like the back of your hand. She needs to be hospitalized, high security, solitary. She's more dangerous than she looks, and she has hidden resources we don't even know about."

Rosie was listening in and railed at Gates. "You're damn right I do, you self-satisfied cow. You ever want to see those three girls again?"

Kloskins paled. "What three girls?"

"Oh, let's see. Tiffany... Kayla... Elise? Sweet little blondes. Just the type Jerry Tyson liked to play with. He set them aside specially, wanted to test Ricky out on them."

Gates said, "Where are they?"

Rosie smirked. "God, I love America."

"Where are those girls, Dr. Nieman?"

"I have the right to remain silent. Anything I do or say may be used against me in the court of law..."

Gates looked over at Castle and Beckett, wrapped in a blanket, absorbed in one another, not hearing what Rosie was saying. She gritted, "Get that monster out of here before I shut her up myself."

Kloskins turned to Holst. "You finish up here. I'll ride in with her. Tell Brady I want two extra cars to flank us to the hospital."

Rosie was crowing "I have the right to an attorney..." when the ambulance doors slammed behind her and Kloskins. The ambulance drove away, sirens chirping and honking like geese on crack.

Esposito said, "Speaking of crazy. What the hell, Perlmutter?"

Perlmutter said, "You explain it, Captain, and I trust you'll make me look properly heroic." He flinched away from the EMT. "Can I have a mirror? I'd like to address the extremely painful cut on my forehead." The paramedic shook his head, dabbing with antiseptic wipes.

Gates said, "I asked his supervisor to call him in to assist because Dr. Parish was unavailable. Dr. Perlmutter refused."

Perlmutter huffed. "We were at a Living Doll Appreciation convention. Arlene and I had been planning it for months. I had no actual desire to attend a last minute fly-by-night wedding in the Hamp-Toons," he grumbled. "But Arlene insisted. So we missed almost the entire second day before we could get back for the Evening Social and Talent Show."

Ryan said, "Wait, isn't Arlene..."

"So _why_ did you come?" asked Lanie.

"Arlene said it was the right thing to do. Would you be careful?" he snapped at the paramedic, who was trying to clean up a nasty cut on his forehead. He snatched at the alcohol wipe. "Here, let me..."

"Sorry, Doctor," said the Paramedic. "Please don't interfere. Insurance liability."

Perlmutter huffed.

Lanie said, "But we saw you at the... We saw you at Castle's house yesterday."

"Yes, you did. And once we were off the hook, Arlene and I took the charter bus back to the city, then caught the rest of the day's events."

Esposito added, "I saw you here yesterday afternoon."

Perlmutter shook his head. "I just got back here about three hours ago, after getting a call from Captain Gates when I was _right in the middle of something._"

Gates was blushing. "I'm so sorry, Dr. Perlmutter, and I know it was late at night, but I didn't realize..."

Some people drip sarcasm. Perlmutter had upped it to a scalding stream. "Oh, it's all right," he sighed. "We'll only be missing out on the Miss Living Doll Brunch Meet N'Greet at 10 a.m."

Esposito said, "Dude, it's a doll."

Perlmutter glared. Captain Gates tried to mollify him, "They probably have conventions all the time. I collect dolls too, and..."

"Not like this. We're a small but dedicated community. We only have this one international convention of doll lovers in the continental U.S. every four years. By then I'll have to have Arlene's face replaced at least once. These dolls are incredibly delicate, you know..."

Lanie said, "Wait, so there was an impostor doll and an impostor Perlmutter?"

"That wasn't a doll," said Perlmutter. "That was a serial killer named Darrell Bingham, and a plasticized corpse he keeps around for fun."

Everyone exchanged horrified looks. Perlmutter said, "It's no worse than going to Body Worlds. Do you have any idea where those bodies come from?"

"Where did you find him?" asked Ryan, keeping to the point.

"I didn't find him. The FBI did. When Captain Gates called me at TEN PM last night" (glare), at first we thought there was some mistake." Then, Perlmutter got a strange, dreamy smile. "I talked it over with Arlene, and we realized we couldn't be both still in the Hamptons and also enjoying _an extremely nice party_ at the JFK Convention Center Grand Ballroom." He paused, mastering his irritation. "So I gave Captain Gates a call back, and we discussed the possibility that whoever had kidnapped Mr. Castle was using my double."

Esposito said, "Like Kelly Nieman did with me and Lanie."

"Exactly. The question being, why would they want access to the Long Island coroner's office? We checked, and it turns out a man claiming to be me had shown up both at the crash site and at the morgue, after Dr. Dinkmeyer got the body's DNA results. And after Dr. Parish and Detective Esposito crapped out for the evening."

Lanie's eyes flashed a warning. "It's called sleep."

Perlmutter said, "Not like I got any last night. I had to come here and do play-acting, fill in for Bingham. Entirely out of my pay grade."

Gates added: "According to Bingham, Nieman has backup plan after backup plan, depending on how it played out: scenarios for if she got killed, if Mr. Castle died, if her partners were killed or captured... She even contacted Castle's double last week - that stunt man, but he was already booked this weekend. Bingham tried to steal the burned body from the morgue, but based on an anonymous tip, we'd placed extra security. He tried to escape, but a homeless vet tackled him in the parking lot." She chuckled. "One tough customer, a Mr. Hunt. We questioned Bingham and found he was supposed to meet up with Nieman in a jeep she kept parked in an RV storage facility. He'd picked up the jeep, was supposed to collect the body and was waiting on her call. The FBI was there when it came in."

"The FBI? But we weren't even sure it was a kidnapping."

"Agent Jordan Shaw got a tip from the CIA. Apparently there's a politico in town somewhere and one of their agents was monitoring chatter. She called in a favor." Gates grinned.

Esposito looked at Perlmutter with a new respect. "So you went undercover as a serial killer?"

"Yes. Arlene and I really turned the tables on that bastard. He had quite a selection of body parts stowed away in his freezer." Perlmutter smiled. "It's a shame that I don't work this jurisdiction. Dinkmeyer has a big job on his hands."

* * *

Kate, at this point, was still utterly absorbed in Castle. She still had his head against her chest, and was stroking his filthy hair. Absentmindedly he reached up and cupped her breast for comfort and she just let him keep it there, sheltered by the blanket around them. His voice was small. "I was so scared I'd never see you again," he whispered.

She nodded. "Me too." She placed her hand over his. He tried to focus on it.

"My ring's on your thumb."

"I was waiting to give it to you."

He leaned back. "I"m glad you didn't put it on a chain." He fumbled with his left lapel. "Look in my pocket."

She reached into his left pocket and pulled out the ring box, opened it up. It was no surprise – they'd selected the ring set together. "I'm so glad you didn't lose it in the struggle."

He fumbled a little to pick the ring out of the box. "Hold out your wing finger. Ring finger."

"Here?"

He nodded, and slipped the ring onto her finger. "Katherine Houghton Beckett, with this ring I thee wed even though I'm on drugs."

Kate grinned, and pulled his ring off her thumb, then slid it onto his finger. "Richard Edgar Alexander Rodgers Castle, with this ring I thee wed. Forever."

He looked at her, bittersweet. "Not just always."

Kate shook her head. "Forever."

Dirtiest kiss ever. Also the sweetest.


	12. Chapter 12

I was out of town and unable to update this for a week. I felt like an addict going through withdrawal. Also I was in the high desert, again, with my husband and daughter, on a road trip. If you knew how much I secretly hate the desert and dearly love big green trees and ocean waves, you'd understand just how much I love that man.

This may have backfired since he's now talking about retiring in Nevada. NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! :-D

And here we are, talking about the things we do in search of love.

* * *

**I See You**

_Yeah I went with nothing  
Nothing but the thought of you  
I went wandering  
I went drifting through the capitals of tin  
Where men can't walk  
Or freely talk  
And sons turn their fathers in_

I went with nothing  
But the thought you'd be there, too  
Looking for you  
I went out there in search of experience  
To taste and to touch and to feel as much  
As a man can before he repents  
I went out searching, looking for one good man  
A spirit who would not bend or break  
Who could sit at his father's right hand

_The Wanderer – U2 with Johnny Cash_

FBI Agent Jenna Marks, a petite young woman with a sensible short haircut, didn't get too close. She kept an eye on the three men while she called, again, for backup. It sucks to be the low woman on the totem pole, especially if that totem pole is in Long Island at 2 a.m.

The first man, Mr. John Smith (if that was his real name), the heroic homeless man, tall, craggy, and weatherbeaten, sat hunched on a concrete wall at the parking lot threshold. He was shaking. He smelled. His face was nearly covered by a tobacco-stained beard and filthy watch-cap, long white hair straggling down from underneath. He was dressed for combat in army surplus, so it seemed only fitting that he'd beaten the tar out of the second man.

The second man was dressed in a white doctor's smock, and wore a security badge for one "Sidney Perlmutter, NYC Coroner's Office." But the driver's license in his wallet named him one Darrell Wayne Bingham. Smith - who had no ID - had tackled Bingham, knocked him down with one punch, and Marks had handcuffed the suspect. Bingham was conscious, lying on his belly, apparently mumbling to the third man. It seemed almost like a chant, a rosary, the same phrase repeated with slight variations.

The third man was partially encased in a Long Island Coroner's Office body bag that exhibited traumatic zipper failure. He had fallen off the overturned gurney with a sickening crunch. His charred head and shoulders extended out of the rumpled bag. The whole thing looked like a burnt campfire hot dog. The body bag was marked "John Doe, possible ID Jerald Tyson." But Bingham referred to the body as 'Mike'.

"We're gonna find him, Mike. we're gonna take him down for what he did to us. Piece by piece. Everyone he loves. We're gonna dress them up like a wax museum and throw him a surprise party he'll never forget. First the bride. Then the girl. Then your mom." Bingham giggled a little. "Dead meat. Like a wax museum."

Agent Marks said, "Mr. Smith, why did you help me?"

Smith chuckled. "I dunno, missy. I saw this guy running with a gurney, body bag. I was a medic in 'Nam. Didn't make sense, why'd he be running in the middle of the night? Away from the morgue?"

"It was brave, sir, but unnecessary. I almost had him."

The old man's brown eyes went sharp, then faded again. "Sorry, miss, but those short little legs? You might never ha' caught him. They shouldn't have' posted you here alone."

Agent Marks thought, _"Chauvinist butt-hole."_ She said stiffly, "Sir, I am with the FBI and fully trained to handle emergencies. My partner should be here any moment, along with the local police." Her partner was probably passed out drunk with a stripper somewhere in a Montauk Highway motel. He hadn't answered his phone.

"Well, they ain't here now," he said. "Look, any chance you could get me a cup of coffee while we wait for your buddies?" He pulled a flask of rotgut from the pocket of his camo jacket, drank from it and then retched a little. "I'm havin' a war with my liver and I need reinforcements."

"I'm not a waitress, sir. I'm an agent."

"Water? Maybe a blanket?" He leered. "Tuna sandwich?"

She sighed. "All right." She went to the trunk of her car, opened it, rummaged, turned back to him. "Here you..."

Jackson Hunt / John Smith was gone. Vanished into thin air.

Marks called out, "Sir?" But she couldn't leave her prisoner. Her voice echoed through the parking garage. She heard sirens approaching. Someone must have called the local police. They pulled in a moment later, followed by a marked FBI van.

The false Dr. Perlmutter was still talking. "First the bride. Then the girl. Last, your mom, that bitch. They're all dead meat. Dead. Meat. First the bride. Then the girl. Then your mom. Just like you said, Mike. Make them all pay. Dead meat."

Marks shivered, and had to hide tears of relief. This man was the scariest perp she'd ever encountered.

A slim, sharp, red-haired woman strode over to Marks, offering her hand to shake with a brief smile. "Agent Marks? I'm Agent Jordan Shaw."

The young woman nodded and pointed to her suspect. "Medical ID badge reads as Sidney Perlmutter, Manhattan central coroner's office. Look at his driver's license."

"Darrell Wayne Bingham." Shaw ran a UV flashlight over the card. "Fake. But a good start." Shaw surveyed the killer, and the body. She listened to Bingham's rosary for a moment, and arched an eyebrow at Marks. "Holy crap, what a wingnut."

* * *

In the morning's small hours, Jackson Hunt's van pulled to the shadows of the trees alongside the road to his son's summer home. He'd heard the chatter. Knew that Captain Gates and Perlmutter were heading in from Manhattan, that Bingham was waiting for a call from a woman he wouldn't name. Having tracked Bingham down and helped deliver him to the FBI, he was content to let Jordan Shaw take the kidnap investigation – if it was a kidnapping – to its next steps. He was well-acquainted with her reputation and trusted her.

He removed the homeless-grime makeup, the watch-cap/wig combo, and the smelly old camo jacket, then donned a black turtleneck and bullet-proof vest. It did not say "Writer's Dad" on it. Maybe for father's day.

He debated the wisdom of having blocked the media transmissions from the scene, but not too much. The people who might show up fell into four classes: legitimate law enforcement, legitimate well-wishers/family, gawkers/media/vultures, and actual threats. He figured the local law would do a decent job of keeping the unauthorized in check. There was no knowing whether they'd find a lead to Richard's whereabouts anyway – whether he'd been vaporized in the explosion or abducted, transported or hidden, vanished into thin air. But Jackson sifted through the intel, his ears attuned to masked signals and coded discussions. So far, nothing popped except a call from a burner phone: "Meet me south of the crash site. Bring the jeep." He didn't know that Shaw had intercepted the call, and that Gates and Tori accompanied Perlmutter to the location. The local FBI was spread thin with the three kidnapped girls.

He was deeply fearful that his son had not survived the crash. He'd looked at the preserve's info on the site, but of course since the old tunnels were sealed off, they didn't show up on the map (although the old tunnel did show a very faint impression on the satellite image, it was shaded somewhat by trees, which Rick would have pointed out had he been there). Maybe he was tired, getting old, jetlag from his recent Ukraine mission kicking in. He wasn't one for excuses in a work scenario, but he'd made a lot of excuses in his personal life. And now it was time to step up for his son again, because the threat fanned out to Richard's family, to his friends, and to Kate. Jackson was determined to be there, this time, to make up for so many times he'd failed them.

Kate had taken off in Rick's mustang fifteen minutes before, stealing past the sleeping local cop who was supposedly guarding the house. He considered following her, but instinct told him to stay and guard the house. She was good at taking care of herself, whereas Martha and Alexis were defenseless. It was still mostly dark. Dawn was only a pale hint when, 45 minutes later, lights went on in the downstairs guest rooms at Castle's summer house. Moments after that, Kevin Ryan and Elena Parish dashed out of the house, jumped into Ryan's car, and careened down the driveway and past him, roaring toward the crash site. The scanner caught calls for additional ambulances and backup at the crash site. Lights went on all over the house, and Hunt bit his lip in apprehension. He watched and waited, somehow certain that Bingham and the late, charred 'Michael' (whoever he was) weren't acting alone. The local cop got out of the car, paused to look around, and slipped into the house without knocking.

Hunt got out of the van and stole to the front porch. He peered in the kitchen window. From this angle, he couldn't see the intruder. Alexis was pouring iced tea out of a pitcher into a reusable go-cup, from which she sipped. He smiled proudly. Sensible girl: it was going to be a warm day, and coffee would just make her jittery. But she'd made a pot of coffee, poured a mug, and headed to the guest room where her grandmother was still likely sleeping off whatever she'd gotten bombed on the night before (and who could blame her?). He moved around to the side of the house.

From the shadows near the pool cabana, Hunt watched the man in the local cop uniform slip into the house. A panel truck - marked with the local newspaper's logo - pulled into the driveway with its headlights dark. Two men got out. Usually newspaper distributors don't carry guns.

Hunt wasn't entirely sure who was in the house: Alexis and Martha, probably Kate's father, maybe Detective Ryan's wife. Did these men intend to take everyone, or simply the women Rick loved most?

Hunt had cased the house a while back while working undercover as a contractor for/with Richard's "Guy-I-know-who-upgrades-alarm-systems". He'd also swept the house for bugs, found only one in the bedroom light fixture, but had been unable at the time to determine where it transmitted to, probably because whoever was listening in at the time knew that Castle was in Manhattan, so wasn't bothering to monitor this channel.

He slipped to the largest guest room window and peered in to see Alexis with her hand on Martha's shoulder. The window was open to the fragrant ocean air.

"Gram," Alexis was shaking the older woman's shoulder. "Gram, they've found something. Wake up." Martha groaned and rolled over. "Gram!"

Hunt couldn't believe that, under the circumstances, they weren't more vigilant. _"Open window? Really?"_ But then, he was dealing with Martha, and she was a tad on the impulsive side, the sort who'd leave her windows open wide during kidnapping season.

His knuckle tapped the window frame softly, and he poked his head in. "Alexis, it's me. Be quiet."

Alexis' startled gaze flew to the window and she hurried over, scowling. "What in hell are you doing here?" she hissed. "Are you part of this?"

Hunt pulled himself into the room, not bothering to address her disrespect. He motioned for quiet and whispered, "Who's in the house with you?"

"Where's my dad?"

"I don't know, but there's a stranger in the living room. He's dressed as a cop. Two others moving in on the side and back."

He climbed in the window, closed it silently, pulled the drape. "Is anyone from NYPD here?"

Alexis' eyes went wide with fear. "No. We got a call from Detective Esposito, something's happening, he didn't say what. Kate disappeared sometime in the night. I think she took Dad's old mustang."

Hunt smiled grimly. "She's a force of nature."

"What should we do?"

Hunt thought a moment. "You held up really well back in Paris. You need to run, but you might need to fight."

She nodded. "You want us to present a small target?"

"Yes, like before. And a lively one. First, wake Martha." Alexis pulled off Martha's sleep mask and placed a hand over her mouth. Alexis said, "Gram. Wake up. Come on." Martha didn't react. Alexis dripped a little iced tea on her grandmother's face. Martha startled awake, her blue eyes darting about. "Grams. Shh. Mr. Hunt's here."

Being older, Martha's eyes took time to adjust in the dark. Hunt said, "We need to get you two out of the house safely. Let's move the bed to block the door."

Hunt locked it without a sound, and then he and Alexis picked up the wood-framed, double bed and carried it over, nudging it against the door frame. He checked out the window, then vaulted out. "You first, Martha. Alexis, give your grandma a boost."

Martha was relatively limber for her age, but it was still an effort for her. She perched on the frame, hesitating, and he swept her into his arms. She swatted at him. "I can do it my–" but he already had her on the ground. Alexis found her own way out, whispering "Someone tried the door."

He nodded, "Stay together. Head for the cabana, and if you encounter anyone, make noise. Don't be afraid to wake the neighbors. Keep moving, and go for the eyes and groin if they get close."

Alexis picked up a lawn gnome hidden in the flowerbed. She'd bought it for her dad as a joke. It was grimacing and holding a little chain saw that glinted with silver paint in the soft light from the open window. "I'm ready."

The two women headed to the cabana, staying low.

Hunt heard a baby crying. He stepped to the next window over, to see a young, blonde woman – Jenny Ryan - walking her little one around the guest room. This window was locked, and he was afraid to startle her. The door burst open as he watched, and the "cop" advanced into the room, pistol first.

"Oh, my God!" she cried, and shrank back against the wall. "What do you want?"

With no advantage going in the window, Hunt broke down the locked back French doors with a crash and hurried into the great room. James Beckett was there, already tied, a piece of duct tape over his mouth, his face a bit banged up, and his opponents – the newspaper delivery men - looking quite the worse for wear. They saw Hunt and made for the front door, pushing James before them. They opened the door, and to Hunt's astonishment, a silenced 44 brought first one down, then the other.

Jim Beckett froze, staring at the source of gunfire on the porch, that had lain in wait for his assailants. He could say nothing because of the tape over his mouth, but his expression spoke plainly: "What the hell?"

Jenny Ryan's screams ripped through the house. "No! Let her go! PLEASE!" The baby was screaming too. The cop emerged from the guest room, moving sideways, the baby tucked unhappily under his left arm, her tiny limbs flailing helplessly, Jenny Ryan with her hands cable-tied behind her back, under his right arm with a gun at her throat. Jenny pleaded "Please, support her neck, she's barely even crawling yet..."

Amateur.

Hunt stepped in behind him, silent, waiting for his move as he took in his dead accomplices. The armed person from the front porch stepped into the living room. She was a tall, slim, silver-haired woman in peach-colored silk charmeuse pajamas and kitten-heel brocade slippers. Her steady gaze swept over Hunt but didn't pause on him as she spoke to the fake cop, "Let them go and I won't kill you."

The cop snickered, "Right, Grannie. Let _me_ go and I won't kill..."

Her bullet punched right through the cop's skull. His grip failed on Sarah Grace, and Hunt, who'd been ducked low behind him, caught her easily. Jenny hip-checked her assailant and ducked away, and the gun flew out of his hand as he fell sideways, twitching, onto the floor.

Aunt Teresa went to her brother and yanked the duct tape off his mouth.

Jim's mouth just hung open, and he squinted at her as if his entire mind was being rearranged.

"You're welcome," she grinned.

Hunt pulled a jackknife, and unbound Jenny's hands, then folded and tossed it to Teresa, who caught it easily and cut through the duct tape around Jim's wrists.

Jim was still staring at his sister in complete astonishment. "Tee?"

She turned to Hunt, who was handing Sarah Grace off to her tearful mommy. "What are you calling yourself lately?"

"Jackson Hunt." He gestured around at the corpses. "For these purposes. And you?"

She nodded. "Good to see you again." Offered her hand and they shook. "Teresa Beckett Powers." She added, "I'm widowed." She put the safety on her gun and tucked it into her kimono pocket.

Hunt said, "You're looking well."

Jim said, "You two know each other? Who is this man?"

"I'm Richard's father." He offered a hand to Jim, who shook hands, then his head.

Teresa frowned slightly. "Small world." She tilted her head. "That's just... Are you sure?"

Hunt shrugged. "Reasonably. What have you been up to for the last thirty-odd years?"

"Oh, public relations," said Teresa breezily. "Jenny, we have things under control here, don't alarm your husband for now, ok?"

Jenny nodded absently, still trying to cope with her own shock. She was sitting on the couch, trying to comfort Sarah Grace, who had never been handled so rudely before. The Princess was seriously offended but unharmed.

"Speaking of 'under control', I need to find Martha and Alexis," said Hunt.

Teresa nodded. "I'll remain here in case anyone else wants to join the festivities." She added, "Jimmy, could you find some sheets, or throws? Cover these boys up." Jim, who'd been watching this exchange in a state of complete shock, nodded.

Hunt charged out the back door, toward the cabana. He knocked, heard a crash, went in. Alexis was armed with the pool skimmer, prodding with the aluminum handle at a fourth man who must have come up from the beach. The lawn gnome was no more. Martha was trying to unlock Alexis' phone and dial 911 in the dark, huddled next to the life jackets and boogie boards.

Hunt hooked the man around the knee and dropped him hard on the cement floor. Hunt held the man down. Alexis switched the light on. The floor was pebbled with rounded green and blue beach glass. It was very pretty, the man's blood running red in the grouting. Hunt flipped him over on his belly and cuffed him, a knee in the middle of his back. The man grunted and cursed.

"Is everything ok now?" Alexis quavered.

"It's safe back at the house. Why don't you head on back, and I'll have a little talk with our friend here."

Martha was still trying to figure out Alexis' phone. The girl reached out to her. "Here, let me do that, Gram."

"I've almost got it, what's the unlock code again?" Martha's hands were shaking, but she was determined not to look rattled.

Hunt said, "Don't call 911 yet. Just go get dressed, eat a little something. The living room's a mess, but everyone who matters is fine. Keep your eyes open on the way back to the house, and raise holy hell if anyone messes with you."

Alexis hefted her pool cleaner. "Got it." He smiled at her determined little face.

Martha and Alexis skirted the two men. Martha paused in the doorway. "It's good to see you have your priorities straight."

He nodded. "About time, huh?"

A slice of sun floated on the ocean, casting her tired face in a golden glow. Something bittersweet lit up in her eyes. She patted her sleep-mussed hair and said, "I must look a fright."

He shook his head. "You're more beautiful than the day we met."

She turned with a smile and left for the house with Alexis. He turned, also with a smile, toward his captive. "Now. Where is Richard Castle, and who's in on this?"

It's a delicate art, getting information from a source without causing actual screaming, but that's why a syringe full of truth serum comes in so handy. Never leave home without it.

* * *

After marrying Kate, Rick fell silent, his head still on her chest. She almost wondered if he was asleep, but she felt waves of deep tremors moving through his body. He whispered, "Starting to hurt a little now." Clearly that was an understatement. His face had gone white and clammy under the layer of dirt, and his good hand clenched in a tight fist. Lanie came over to them and crouched down at Kate's shoulder, peering into Rick's face.

"Castle, do you know what Kelly Nieman gave you?"

"Something fruity in a water bottle."

Lanie sighed. "I'm afraid to OD you if we don't know what you have in your system. How you doin'?"

"Not so good," he breathed.

Kate called over to Mohammed Atah, who was giving Betsy a belly rub, preparing to take her back to the van. "If we gave the dogs a possession of the suspect's, could they find her other things in the rubble?"

Mo grinned. "Betsy could find a needle in a needle store."

"Okay then," said Lanie. "How about the dress?"

"That has my scent on it too," Kate said. "Might confuse her."

Atah nodded. "It'll do in a pinch, but..."

Gates called to Tori. "Any of the perp's personal effects in the jeep?"

Tori appeared a moment later with a red, curly wig. "I think she was going for Bernadette Peters but it was probably more like Bozo the Clown."

Mo took the wig in hand and let Wilbur and Betsy go to town on it. Betsy knew how to differentiate between a person and their stuff. They'd practiced this. She had the scent: cigarette smoke, rose perfume, and evil. Betsy woofed and did a little bow and a happy dance. _Ready._ Mo spoke to Beckett. "What are we looking for?"

Beckett shrugged a little, and Rick groaned – she'd bumped his broken nose. "Oh, sorry, Babe!" She thought a moment. "A syringe... a water bottle... a shoulder bag. And a gun."

Rick shivered. "Red pearl handle 38." He added, "No oysters."

Lanie looked at Castle more closely. She grumbled, "I don't have much of a kit with me. Wish the goddamn ambulance would get here." They could hear sirens but they were far off, growing louder, but not fast enough.

Rick said, "You could amputate my hand. Always wanted a robot hand."

Lanie glanced at Kate. "Let's have a look."

Beckett shifted back away from Castle, supporting his shoulders. His head lolled forward a little, and he hunched in pain. "Lanie's going to look at your hand. Rick? Can you sit up straight?"

"Castle, you're gonna be ok." Lanie looked under the blanket at his right hand. It was wrapped in spirals of black gaffer's tape but clearly swollen, the fingers a deep purple. Lanie scowled in the general direction of Kelly Nieman's ambulance. "Lady, when I get my hands on you..."

"Sorry," Rick mumbled. He didn't want to open his eyes. He was leaning on Mephistopheles, and Mephistopheles' snake-head-tail was slowly chewing away at Rick's hand with jaws of fire. "Just eat it, I don't want it any more," he mumbled. "Give the devil his due."

Meph's voice was sweet, familiar. "Hang on, babe, the ambulance is coming." The hounds of hell bayed, and Meph added more loudly, "Hey. Did you find the bottle?"

Rick was too tired to respond. Meph felt surprisingly soft, wrapping him in her huge hands that felt like blankety bat-wings.

Petros walked up to Meph and said, "Betsy found the whole bag. All kinds of meds in here. Look like stolen prescriptions."

The ambulance drove up. The paramedics had trouble getting the stretcher down the steep, crumbling stairs. It would be worse getting it back up.

Lanie looked through the bag. "This woman could've opened her own pharmacy." She sniffed the water bottle, then stuck a finger in and tasted it. She grimaced. "Quite the cocktail. I'm guessing morphine, cocaine, and cherry flavored syrup." Betsy would have confirmed that if anyone had known how to ask the question so she could answer it.

"My God," Beckett murmured. "The Shirley Temple from hell."

"Fun while it lasted," Castle gasped.

Betsy came up, close and quiet, and leaned against Pillow Case Kate. She sniffed the lovely woman delicately. Pillow Case Kate was wrapped nicely around Pillow Case Rick, who radiated pain. Betsy nudged Rick, then laid a heavy paw on his leg. _"You're sick, Big Rick. Lie down. Good boy."_

He tried to politely shake her paw, but she wouldn't let him: faked him out with her paw, nudging him again. But he wouldn't lie down, just leaned harder against his love-and-worry-scented Kate. Betsy could smell infection beginning, particularly under the tape on his hand, and dehydration, the toxin damage in his liver now inflamed by a delay in medication he should have taken the night before. She could smell the love and fear and grief they shared. She moaned gently and, unable to help herself, shoved her nose between Kate's legs. Kate looked down at her mournfully. "Silly girl."

Betsy knew Kate couldn't pet her because she was already cuddling Rick, and she'd been trained not to come between snuggling humans. But she rubbed her forehead against Kate's belly and woofed softly. That's how dogs congratulate one another when they're carrying puppies. A tiny, _tiny_ bundle of healthy cells had implanted and put down microscopic blood-vessel-roots in Kate's uterus. It was already sending out placental hormones, preparing Kate's body to grow a little one. Betsy, who had officially adopted these lovely people as her own, was one proud auntie. She thought, _"It's a boy."_

Mo said, "Sorry, she can be sort of bossy. Come on, girl."

Castle was shivering. He put his left hand on Betsy's wrinkled forehead, rubbing her with his thumb, the way he had with Royal. He tried to smile. "I like strong women."

Beckett looked over at Ryan. "Can you have our family meet us at the hospital?"

Ryan nodded. "I'll get right on it. Just called Jenny and Alexis and left messages that he's alive. Felt like a shame not to tell them in person but nobody's picking up."

Kate was too absorbed in Castle for that to sink in. The paramedics finally got Castle onto the gurney, and with the two of them, plus Esposito, and Ryan at the corners, they carried him up the embankment, wheeled him to the ambulance, then lifted him in. Kate rode with him in the back, along with Perlmutter, reluctantly, on his own stretcher. She tried to stay out of the way of the paramedic, a big, possibly Samoan heritage man, named Fred Momoa. He spoke to Castle: "We're gonna keep you awake and talking, ok?"

Castle said, "Want Kate."

Perlmutter was babbling a little. "You know ambulances are extremely unsafe. Sometimes they explode without warning."

Momoa was in fact placing an oxygen cannula in Rick's nose (which, it may have been mentioned a few times, had been broken by the airbag). He gritted his teeth in pain. The paramedic cleaned his arm off and gave him a local, then set about cutting off his jacket, shirt, and finally the rest of the gaff-tape sling, where Kelly had left the sticky side directly in contact with Rick's skin. The local hadn't quite taken effect, and Castle swore, nearly sick with agony. Kate held his left hand, stroking his hair, trying to stay out of the way. His body was covered with bruises, the left arm and side shredded and caked with dry blood and bat shit from pulling himself down the tunnel. Kate reached for the container of wipes and Momoa smiled thanks for her help, even though technically she wasn't supposed to do anything other than hold Castle's hand.

Perlmutter said to Kate, "I want someone to check on Arlene."

Kate could barely contain her impatience. "Dr. Perlmutter, we have a real person here."

"Define _real_," Perlmutter snarled. Then he took a breath. "Look, I'm sorry, but if it weren't for my better half, I wouldn't even be here, and maybe neither would you."

Kate narrowed her eyes, incredulous. "You really think..."

"Did you have any dolls as a child, Detective? Or may I call you Kate now that I've saved your life?"

"Well, uh. Sure, Kate's fine. Most people call me Beckett though..."

Perlmutter continued. "Kate. Have you ever have phone sex?" Her mouth opened and closed.

"Ever get intimate with an object, whether animal, vegetable, or mineral, that was not considered strictly human?" She just kept her mouth closed, debating whether to punch him.

Castle turned to Perlmutter, mildly amused and trying to distract himself from the pain. "I sing duets with my steering whale. Wheel. Nobody else can hear us."

Perlmutter persisted, flogging a dead horse. "Ever told all your troubles to a mirror? Cuddled a pillow? Yelled at ATM that wouldn't give you your money? Tried to joke with an anonymous voice on the phone? Been startled by a mannequin that at first you thought was human? Been reluctant to tear up the photo of a former lover, even though you wish them no harm?"

Castle mumbled, "She's scared of my lion poster."

Beckett smacked him gently. "Castle talks to his computer." But she thought of her mom's photo, and her headstone. They'd had talks.

Castle said, "I have a lot of imaginary friends." He looked at Momoa. "You might be one of them, because you're sticking an arm in my needle and I can't feel a think."

Momoa blushed and grinned shyly. He had hooked Rick's left elbow up to a hydration bag. "I'm a fan." He added, "You're pretty dehydrated, this should help you feel better pretty soon."

Perlmutter said, "You're on Tweeter, Mr. Castle. I'm one of your three-plus million followers, although it's only to see what inane thing you'll think of next. Do you know who I am? Do you think I'm a 12-year-old girl from Scotland or a Russian spam-bot or a kid named Bester42 who writes mystery novels and wants to be just like you?"

"You're Bester42?" Castle was shocked.

Momoa grinned at Castle. "I'm Fangrrl78."

Castle's sleepy eyes went wide. _"Really?"_

Beckett said, "You write the fanfic where Nikki's sidekick is a honey badger?"

Fangrrl78, also known as "Fred Momoa," grinned. "Yeah. I even won a crack fic contest."

Castle said, "That's a good one, though I thought the thing with the Ferris wheel was a bit far-fetched."

Beckett stroked Castle's hair and smiled at Fangrrl78. "I thought it was cute."

Castle murmured, "That's gotta be a first."

Perlmutter nattered on. "No. It doesn't matter who _I_ am. Who _any_ of us are. My point is, we're _all_ imaginary to the people we haven't met. And where does your imagination of Beckett end, and the reality of Nikki Heat begin? Did Beckett just happen to fit your half-baked notion of a muse? Would you have written books about her if she'd been 4'11, or built like the Creamy Dream Marshmallow Girl, or been a sanitation worker?" Perlmutter drawled. "No. I'm sure it was her soulful green eyes."

"So," Castle said dreamily. "It doesn't matter whether Arlene is all in your head or not."

"Which makes my relationship with her a good deal more pure than the one you have with one another, if I might say so myself. I'll never hurt her feelings, she'll never move away or find another lover, I'll never put her on a slab because I killed her in a fit of jealous rage..."

Beckett, for some reason, was starting to feel really queasy. (For some expectant mothers, it happens that fast. Ask around, you'll hear some amazing stories). She said, "That's never gonna happen."

"Do you really _love_ one another? Or just possess one another? Of course that's none of my business, but I'm never gonna be out of a job as long as 'true love' turns into obsession and rage. I own Arlene, but she'll never own me. And she'll never betray me."

Beckett was feeling downright green. She grimaced, and Perlmutter took her expression for disgust at him. He continued, "I deal enough with death and loss in my life. I'm middle-aged, have mild halitosis, crooked teeth, overactive apocrine glands, and a receding hairline. My very best day will never be as good as Mr. Castle's worst."

Castle's anesthesia was taking effect again. He giggled. "That's detabable. You're kind of cute, Pearly. Merlputter."

Perlmutter shook his head. "You wouldn't want to date me, so don't patronize me."

Castle said, "It's the grugs."

"The drugs wear off, but the attitude..." Perlmutter looked at Kate, his brown eyes sad. "Men like me don't wind up with women like you. I'll take my chances with Arlene rather than settling for some miserable beta female who can barely get off the couch to find herself another carton of ice cream."

Castle said, "I'd like to meet this Arlene."

Kate said, "Castle, she's a love doll."

Perlmutter scowled. "She's a Living Doll. Registered Trademark."

"Really? Inflatable or the silly kind? Cone. Silly cone."

Perlmutter's eyes went wide, surprised that Castle would have the slightest inkling of the difference. "Japanese made, finished in the US to specification at the New Jersey factory. Silicone over a lightweight titanium alloy armature."

"Spendy."

Perlmutter chuckled. "Arlene was worth every penny."

Castle smiled dreamily, eyes closed, and murmured, "It's still kinda weird," and Kate vowed silently to herself that she was going to kick Boba Fett out of the bathroom, once and for all.

* * *

The sun had risen over the sea southeast of them, flooding the pretty room with hopeful light. Alexis pulled the blinds closed. She feared the worst. The bird clock struck Red Wing Blackbird: 6 a.m. Richard Castle had been missing for nineteen hours.

Martha and Jackson were sitting on a bench on the back deck. Alexis heard her grandfather making a call, presumably to a contact in the FBI. "Hey, it's me. Yeah, three perps in the house, DOA. One in the cabana, bring him in for further questioning. I have a rendezvous – ready for the address?" He rattled it off, a boathouse in Montauk. "Yeah, it's a cruiser, he was expecting to meet with the three at the house, drive the Castle women to the boat, kill anyone else in there. No, they're ok, no civvy casualties. Yeah, I know. Some asshole posing as local police – I should go check the trunk of the patrol car, I was in a hurry."

Martha stared. "You just left someone in the trunk?"

Hunt shrugged and motioned for her to be quiet. "Oh, that's... Miss Rodgers." He paused, listening, and gave Martha a sly smile. "Yes, the actress. No, I won't say I know her but we're acquainted." He listened again. "That's hardly professional, but I'll ask." He winked at Martha. "Wants an autograph. Yeah, I want a crime scene cleanup unit in the house, stat. They've dealt with enough. Yeah, you too. Thanks, I owe ya."

Martha looked askance at her sons' father. "I take it you know a guy," she said drily.

He laughed, the crinkle in his eyes making him look middle-aged instead of just old and sad.

"Yeah."

Jenny was sitting in the easy chair, nursing a sleepy Sarah Grace. Jim and Teresa had covered up the corpses so nobody had to look at them while they waited for the cleanup team, then gone out onto the front porch with cups of hot tea. Teresa explained, at least to an extent, her 'public relations' career, which had been cover for a stint with the CIA that lasted through several decades and numerous administrations up to her move to the private sector in 1997. Jenny, Alexis, and Jim had all checked their messages, and only Jenny had gotten any news, from Ryan: _"Got called back to crash scene by Espo. Asked for Lanie too. Will let you know more asap." _That had been a half-hour ago, but it was four hours in Dog Years, and they all felt every minute of it.

Kate phoned Alexis, who saw her name on the caller ID. Alexis called out, "It's Kate!" Martha and Jackson hurried inside, and Alexis barely noticed that he had a steadying arm around Martha's shoulders.

Kate blurted, "He's alive, he's safe, I'm with him now."

Alexis could hear the siren in the background. She beamed over at her grandmother, who sat on the sofa, her hands encased in Jackson's. Alexis repeated the news, and everyone breathed an immense sigh of gratitude. "I'll put you on speaker. Where is he? Can we talk to him?" She sat next to her grandfather on the sofa, and they all stared at the phone in her trembling hands as if it was a live video remote, willing it to show them what they wanted to see.

Kate's voice was calm, but her happiness read loud and clear over the scratchy signal and wailing siren. "He's in a lot of pain and under sedation, so he's a little loopy."

"I fine," Castle slurred. "Hey, Punkin."

"We're in an ambulance. Your dad's been hurt but..." she glanced at Fred Momoa, who gave her a thumbs up. "He'll be all right. I think he'll need some surgery, but it doesn't look like anything life threatening." The ambulance swung around a corner, and Kate swayed with its motion. She nudged Castle, who was drifting in and out. She wanted to make sure he didn't have a concussion as much as anything. "Castle. I have Alexis on the phone," she reminded him, and switched it to speaker mode. "Alexis, you want to say hi to your dad?"

"Hey, Punkin." He tried to smile, but it looked broken.

"Dad! I'm so glad you're ok."

Tears streamed from his swollen eyes. "Ine fime. I'mfine. Don' do drugs, Punkin."

Alexis said, puzzled, "I won't, Daddy, you know that..."

"I know, I knowIknow. I lu' you, Punkin. Pump. Kin."

Martha's voice came over the speaker. "Richard."

Eyes closed, a lump in his throat, the word barely made it through his lips. "Mommy."

Kate stared at him in alarm and took his good hand. He held on tightly.

"What? Richard?" A new kind of anxiety pierced Martha. "You haven't called me 'Mommy' since... ever."

"I gotta talk-a you. Meph says issalla your fault but Petros says you dinnow."

Many confused glances were exchanged on both sides of the phone. "Richard, Darling, I don't understand."

Beckett put a gentle finger on Castle's lips. It struck her anew that he'd been through emotional hell as well as physical. She said, "Martha, can we talk at the hospital... what is it, East Hampton General?"

Momoa nodded and spoke to the cel phone. "Corner Suffolk and Green."

Kate added, "Meet us there?"

"Of course, we'll be there as soon as possible." Martha was weeping with relief, but dread crept in on her.

Perlmutter said loudly, "I'll be amazed if we make it to the ER alive."

Alexis said, "What was that?"

Kate said, "Just Dr. Perlmutter."

Alexis had forgotten they were on speaker. "Oh, my God, he's not taking care of my dad, is he?"

"No," Kate said. "Dr. Perlmutter was hurt in the line of duty. He saved my life." She smiled at Perlmutter and he gawped at her, then turned beet-red and stared away out the back door window.

"So she actually noticed," he drawled.

Alexis said, "Really? Wow, thank you, Dr. Perlmutter. That was really sweet."

Perlmutter just shook his head, still blushing. "Line of duty, Miss Castle. _Sweetness_ has nothing to do with it."

"Aw, Pearly, you're a sweeguy." Rick mumbled.

* * *

Jim drove Jenny, the baby, Martha, and Alexis to the hospital, with Teresa riding shotgun in case 'Michael' had a plan D. Jackson Hunt and Martha followed in his van. Martha found the van fascinating – outside it was a simple, somewhat careworn older vehicle. In back was a state-of-the-art surveillance center crammed with devices she could barely begin to understand.

She sat back in the comfy passenger seat, sipping coffee from a go-cup Alexis had made for her. "So this is where your partner does stakeouts with you?"

Hunt grinned. "I normally work alone, but, yeah. Theoretically."

"Teresa?"

"Just a work associate. Barely acquainted, and it was years ago, when she was stationed overseas. Are you jealous?"

"A little bit." Martha grinned. "Although Richard tells me stakeouts can be dull as dishwater."

Hunt nodded. "True." He punched some buttons as he drove. Martha heard some chatter, some in Chinese and Russian, Spanish and several languages she couldn't identify. They listened in on a police radio call, which if Martha had known, was Sheriff Kloskins: "Yeah, some dirtbag in an Escalade tried to cut our ambulance off. Dunno how many perps were in on this, but she's at the center of something big. If we can get the whole story out of her we might find those girls... Frickin' useless FBI..."

Hunt turned the radio off with a sigh. Martha stared away out of the window, looking for glimpses of the sea between ritzy beach houses. She said in a small voice, "Did you know about Michael?"

"Michael who?" He looked genuinely puzzled.

Martha pressed her fingers over her eyes. "Richard's twin brother."

Hunt's eyes went wide. "Jeezus Christ, Martha, are you kidding me?"

"No." She paused, and swallowed. "He was the body. In the car."

Hunt kept his eyes on the road, blinking tears. "Shit. Are you saying 3XK subbed him for Richard?" He shook his head and growled. "Bastard."

"Not exactly. 3XK was Richard's twin."

"Oh, no." Jacksons face was set, masklike, white. "You think it was a suicide?"

"I don't know," she said miserably. "All I know is he... he was our son. And we both failed him."

"How – did you give him up? How did I not know about this?"

She wasn't sure if he was angry with himself, but he sounded angry with her, and she snapped, "Where in hell were you when they were born? When did you start keeping tabs on us?"

"I- I was out of the country, I had to track you down, Richard was, I dunno, maybe five years old, six. I didn't even know you were pregnant, let alone we had a kid."

"It's not like you didn't have the resources..."

"I was MIA, ok?"

"Really. Where."

"Cambodia." He sighed, a hand passing down his cheek, then impatiently pushing through his thick white hair. She had to smile, so like her son. So like Richard. He added, "When I got back to the States I looked you up. Remember that ER bill of $7,462.03 that hung over you up till he was in kindergarten?"

She started to cry. "Their collections department sued me and I was making these stupid little payments at 12% interest. And then one day I got a statement with a zero balance, just out of the blue." She smiled at him, sidelong. "That was you?"

"I did what I could. But there weren't two babies listed on the bill. Just you in ICU and Richard in the nursery ward till they put you back together."

"I thought Michael was stillborn. I had them both at a back-alley clinic; I didn't know he'd survived. I never even got to name him. Never saw him."

"Oh, God, Martha," said Hunt, and reached over to clumsily pat her on the shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

For some reason, that set her off. "You're _sorry_. Where were you on Richard's wedding day? Why are you here now?"

"I _was_ there. I was just... not obvious."

"And obviously not looking in the right direction."

"That's true. I thought it would be no worse than a few paparazzi. I had no idea he was being stalked..."

"Michael had it out for them. We didn't know... who he was. That he was my... He was our son. I'm not even sure Richard knows."

Overwhelmed, Hunt retreated into work mode, concentrating on the logistics. "I can't believe there was no FBI buzz about it."

"They kept it tightly under wraps. Richard said they didn't want copy cats or stalkers moving in on them."

Hunt nodded. "Some serial killers form loose associations, help each other out. Create false alibis, even commit murder by proxy." His throat felt like he'd swallowed ashes, and tears spilled down his cheeks. Retreating into analysis failed him. The wall wasn't working anymore. Something about Martha had always worn it down, every time he'd spoken with her, no matter how briefly. It hurt to be around her, but it felt good, too, like a part of him was coming alive. He shuddered, thinking of the man he'd taken down in the parking lot. Thinking of how one of his sons had grown in to a decent, loving man, and the other had become a monster.

The burned body in the bag had been his own son's. And William Blondin, also known as Don Williams, aka David B. Cooper, aka Horace Willoughby, aka Ignaz Lorkowski, aka Robert Cleary, aka Bill McKechnie, aka Jackson Hunt, could actually feel the pain. He let out a long, ragged breath. "My God."

Martha looked over at him in concern. "You realize none of this was your fault."

He shook his head, speechless. "I should have been there."

They pulled into the hospital parking lot, and the other car unloaded. Alexis ran back to Hunt's van. "You coming?"

Martha shook her head. "Katherine said your father's going into surgery, so I'm sure we have a little time. We'll be in soon, Darling."

Alexis looked doubtful. "Okaay. See you there."

Jackson's hands rested on the steering wheel. Martha took his right. "Let's go in the back for a moment."

He nodded silently, unable to speak. In the dark privacy of his surveillance van, he leaned on her fragile shoulders, and she held him through forty-three years' worth of unshed tears.

* * *

Thanks to Wendy for pointing out we need a POV of Castle's family. More to come on that. :-)


	13. Chapter 13

TooSoon ch13

* * *

**"Don't Dream It's Over"**

There is freedom within  
there is freedom without  
Try to catch a deluge in a paper cup  
There's a battle ahead  
many battles are lost  
But you'll never see the end of the road  
While you're traveling with me

_[CHORUS]_  
Hey now, hey now  
Don't dream it's over  
Hey now, hey now  
When the world comes in  
They come, they come  
To build a wall between us  
We know they won't win

Now I'm towing my car  
there's a hole in the roof  
my possessions are causing me suspicion but there's no proof...

Don't Dream It's Over – Crowded House

* * *

Easthampton General was a perfect storm, and on a Memorial Day monday, no less. Waves of traffic accident victims. A flood of the under-insured poor who'd been neglected to the point of emergency. They came in at their crisis points on a Sunday night and were still waiting ten hours hours later to 'be seen'. And they'd had a flurry of four crazies in one night, one redhead in lingerie, screeching blue murder, one man babbling on about wax museums. Someone in a stolen Escalade had rammed her ambulance on the way to the hospital and tried to 'rescue' her. Bullets had been exchanged, and they had three gunshot vics on the operating tables – one of them Police Chief Brady, another Sheriff Kloskins, plus the suspect. And more incoming. It wasn't even a full moon.

The ambulance carrying Kate, Castle, and Perlmutter was admitted at 6:34 a.m. Since both Castle and Perlmutter were conscious and relatively coherent, they had to take numbers. Numbers! Kate was livid and sat chewing the inside of her cheek, glowering – this alternating with holding Castle's hand and trying to keep his spirits up as he babbled about Mephistopheles and Betsy the Wonder Dog and someone named Declan. He seemed pretty clear that he'd killed 3XK, but there was more to the story, and she just couldn't make sense of it.

Alexis came in about twenty minutes after they arrived, followed by Jim, Aunt Teresa, and Jenny Ryan, carrying the baby in a sling. Alexis went straight to the gurney. "Daddy!"

Rick perked up out of a daze. "Hey, Pumpkin."

Kate relinquished his hand and looked around at their family. "Where's Martha?"

Jim said, "She'll be along in a moment."

Kate nodded. "I didn't want to leave him. You mind?"

Teresa Beckett had thoughtfully brought her neice an overnight bag with a change of clothes, hairbrush, toothbrush, deodorant, even underwear and moisturizer, other just-in-case toiletries. Mascara. Cherry scented lip gloss.

"Thanks, Aunt Tee, you think of everything!"

Jim said drily, "Is there a secret decoder ring in there too?"

Teresa rolled her eyes. Kate looked at the two of them, puzzled, then ran off to use the bathroom. She changed and cleaned up, then went to the service desk, wishing she had her badge and gun, or perhaps a cattle prod. "Nurse Simmons, I'm not trying to be rude, but I'm worried. My husband has a head injury and a gunshot wound. Last name's Castle."

The nurse shook her head. "According to the paramedic it's not life thr––"

"He's in pain. This is wrong."

Nurse Simmons waved her clipboard at the standing-room-only mess. "Ma'am, I'm sorry, but all these folks are in pain."

Kate felt ashamed, but played the money card. "Look. We can make a cash donation to the hospital. Up front." She'd recovered Castle's wallet from his tux jacket before they threw it away. It smelled like bat-shit, but the money was still good, and there was a lot of it.

The nurse's face went hard. "Let's just pretend you didn't try to bribe me. Your number is 29. We have 34 patients waiting to be seen. Don't make me move him back."

"_Bribe_ you? I wasn't..." Kate began. She felt a hand on her arm and turned. "Alexis? Is he okay?"

Alexis gave her a little squeeze. "Gram's with him now. Look who else."

Kate looked over at her husband's gurney. Martha was holding Castle's hand. Jackson Hunt stood with his arm around Martha's shoulders. Kate scowled. "What the hell is..."

"Shh. He saved us. Someone attacked the beach house after you left this morning."

Kate's eyes went wide with horror. "My God. Are you all right?"

Alexis said, "Mostly." Her face was an odd mix of pride and distress. "I think my dad would say something like 'you should see the other guy.'"

Kate gave her a brief hug, and they hurried back to the gurney.

Over the hours since the crash, the bruising around Castle's eyes had deepened into twin purple butterfly wings, and with the swelling, he had to force them open. He looked up at his mother and croaked, "Peekaboo. I'm in ICU."

Martha was failing at not crying. "Hey, Kiddo." She kissed his left hand, careful not to touch the bandaged area he'd rubbed raw on the ground. He smiled a little.

"How's Alexis?"

Alexis patted his hand. "I'm fine, Daddy. I'm here."

"Aunty Em."

"What?"

"And you were there, and you..."

Alexis tried to laugh. "There's no place like home..."

Castle pursed his lips until they were white, and his breath hitched. "My everything hurts."

"The doctor will see you soon," said Hunt. "You've got a couple of shiners there, son."

"Shiny," murmured Rick. Exhausted and drugged, he was drifting out, hadn't even noticed his father talking to him. Hunt frowned in concern. He'd lied to Agent Marks about being a medic in Viet Nam (he'd actually been a pilot), but he'd seen enough fatal injuries to know his son was in trouble. "Is Dr. Parish on her way?"

Perlmutter's voice responded from the sidelines. "What, one coroner isn't enough for you?"

Hunt pointed to his son's face. "See the bruise pattern?"

Perlmutter approached, limping, and peered at Castle's face. He straightened up and hollered at Nurse Simmons, clear across the room. "Excuse me? Patient number 29 indicates bleeding on the brain, and if you don't take care of him, stat, you won't just lose your pants in the lawsuit. I will personally pick off all the stupid little doodads on your pink Crocs when you show up at the morgue DOA. So MOVE."

Oddly, this was the best thing he could have said.

•

Betsy the Wonder Dog could have told the doctors they'd given Castle the wrong drug. This wasn't their fault. They took an MRI and got him into surgery after getting only the briefest medical history, not knowing about the nature of the toxin that had nearly killed him the previous September (which was classified), or the drug he took regularly to counteract the liver damage. (His prescription - also experimental and classified - had been incinerated along with everything in his suitcase except a pair of very expensive quick-release handcuffs). Nor did they know all the ingredients of the speedball that Kelly Nieman had dosed him with that morning.

But they were in a hurry. And Castle lay on the operating table, feeling the sensation of ants crawling over his face as he went under, then nothing.

The doctors first went to work draining excess fluid from his brain with a drill and a stent. They reassembled his lower right arm as well as possible, although that was going to take a lot more work. They cleaned up and removed infected tissue on his left side and the underside of his upper left arm, to just below his elbow, along with a good part of his left pinkie and palm. And they cleaned up bone splintered off his right ilium, where he'd been hit with some blunt object or another, probably a chunk of cement. He'd been under for 93 minutes when he flatlined. All he heard was a long, drawn-out, whining beep.

* * *

He was sitting in the basement office at the Old Haunt, playing cards with Mephistopheles, Petros, and Captain Roy Montgomery. There was a fifth chair, but it was empty.

Dealing cards, Petros said, "Alarm's going off."

"Can you get that?" He could hear the beep, and people outside trying to get in, all upset about losing him. "Let's all just stay calm," he said, although nobody around the card table seemed that excited.

Mephistopheles said, "Don't get up, it'll take care of itself." The beep went on, but he ceased to notice it.

He looked across at Roy Montgomery with a warm smile. "Hey, Captain."

Montgomery smiled and echoed back at him. "Captain."

"I'm not the Captain," Rick said, puzzled.

"Sure you are," said Petros. "Captain of your soul."

"Cliche," said Mephistopheles. "Ante up." He put down a blackened poker chip that bubbled and smoked.

Montgomery set out an ancient red glass bottle. "I'm in, 'Captain Castle'."

"No, the new Captain is Gates."

Montgomery reminded him. "But you have the name plate to prove it."

Rick grinned. "That was a fun case. You would've loved hanging out at the station wearing an afro and a leisure suit."

Montgomery chuckled. "I thought I'd burned all the photos."

Outside, the commotion grew louder. At the top of the stairs, in the main bar, the door opened. Rick could see a bright light, hear people talking and howling with laughter. Stephen Cannell was telling a story, his voice ringing through the room. Rick would have known his laugh anywhere. Excited, Rick said, "You guys wait here... I'm just gonna..." He started up the stairs, but after just the first step, felt breathless, a heavy weight dragging on him. He heard Cannell say, "Adrenaline."

Meph had wrapped a huge, sparking hand around his ribcage. "Don't go toward the light, idiot. You're not done playing yet."

"Quit squeezing my chest."

"Quit struggling. Sit the fuck down," said Petros.

Montgomery said, "It's not just your game. There's a lot riding on this."

"Oh, yeah."

Meph shoved him back into his seat at the table, and somehow the heavy thud jerked his whole body; he felt as if he'd been shaken apart and put back together again. His head swam. The name plate was right in front of him. Captain Castle. His ante.

"I'm in?" He slid the name plate forward, wondering what game he was actually supposed to be playing. He found himself wanting to rearrange the letters, like Scrabble tiles in their little pew. Pew, pew, pew! Laser gun! _Han shot first._ He checked under the table, the gun was there, tucked into a duct tape holster, and all he had to do was pull the trigger. Can you kill your demons? Goodbye, Mephistopheles. He tilted the gun and squeezed the trigger. The bullet erupted through the table top, hit Mephistopheles right between the eyes and bounced off, cracking a lightbulb in the chandelier. Tiny bats flew around Meph's head and his eyes crossed, but the demon just chuckled, looking up to watch them do-si-do-ing around the horns. The bullet ricocheted off the stamped-tin ceiling and Rick felt a blinding pain in his skull. He dropped his cards. "Fuck, what is that?"

"Too much bleeding on the brain," Petros said, and added, "I'm in." He set something down. It was, of course, a rock. Because Peter means rock. Rick's brain was dreaming. So, sorry, that's the best he was able to do.

He stared at the letters on his nameplate, reshuffling endlessly in his head, murmurating in the air like a flock of starlings. He tried to see the pattern, find the meaning:

"_Captain Castle"_

_Anal Cat Septic_ – I'd rather walk a dog than change a cat box

_Natal Cats Epic_ – ok, I really do love kittens

_Nasal Accept It_ – my nose is broken. Again.

_Natal Pace Tics_ – Beckett's pregnant, how do I know? She's glowing. Dirty, but glowing.

_Natal Act Epic_ – someone saved my brother then stole him. Was it my dad?

_Sealant Act Pic_ – how did they close up the tunnel under the Old Haunt?

_Catnap Tale Sic_ – I'm tleling myslef a sotry wihel I sleep

_Catnap Its Lace_ – I wonder what kind of underwear Kate's got on

_Sancta Place It_ – no, Place It Sancta –– something hidden, somewhere safe...

_Cacti Step Anal_ –– well, at least that didn't happen although it hurt to sit, just a little

_A Sceptical Ant_ –– Aunt Teresa's even scarier than Gates

_Slant At_ _Ipecac_–– I feel sick

Rick fought to concentrate. His cards were getting scrambled up, too. Five somethings ago he'd been holding four Three of Clubs and a Queen of Spades. Now he was down to one Three of Clubs, a Queen of hearts, a Queen of spades, a Jack of Spades, and something that might have been a receipt for some kind of repair. What got repaired? Why was it important? "I hate anagrams. We haven't even gotten to 'pants' yet, how many can there possibly be?"

"You're a writer, and pants are therefore optional. Over 13,000," Petros said, "Skip past anything with _ceca_ in it."

Mephistopheles was trying to conceal an ace in his codpiece. The fish was not having it. "I like intestines." The codfish wagged its tail hopefully.

"You would," said Montgomery.

Rick felt really awful. "Ugh. Too much. The letters are just spinning around. What time is it?"

Montgomery was looking at his own cards. "Time to try something new."

Rick looked back at his nameplate. "_Richard Castle_." Like the one on his desk at home.

He tried. Tried, tried, and couldn't get a single full anagram out of it. Something always missing.

"_Richard Alexander Rodgers."_

_In Cheddar Larder Ax Rogers _– was Tyson going to kill me in a cheese factory?

_Ax Record Dredger In Ashlar _– joining stone in a wall. Record dredger. Accountant? Huh.

The accountant/bookkeeper he'd hired for the Old Haunt had slipped and died in his bathtub, several months back. Castle had found a new one, Albert Grossmann, highly recommended. Grossmann spent most of his time down in the basement office. Seemed all right but... A lot of time. Too much time. The Old Haunt's books were hardly complicated.

_Regard Lard Sex In Hardcore _– uh, no

_Rodgers Charred... Rodgers Ireland Charred Ax _– that movie we were in, burning spears...

_In Arched Drag Relaxer Rods _– Secret door, when you push it pops the spring and... hey..

Rick looked up to find the fifth player. His brother, Michael. He'd come in from the secret tunnel behind the bookcase in the Old Haunt's basement office. The door was just swinging closed, and he heard, faintly, the voice of a girl crying out, "Let me out. Please!"

Mephistopheles pulled Michael's chair out for him and dealt him four cards, then said, "Ante up."

Michael looked over his shoulder. The bookcase slid into place over the entrance. He pulled a lock of blonde hair, tied with a piece of green-and-white shoelace, out of his tuxedo pocket and set it on the table before him. "I'm in."

Montgomery shook his head, a bit discouraged. "Careful, Castle. No victories."

Upstairs there was a roar of laughter. It was Cannell. He stuck his head in through the door. "Bullshit. Ricky, If there were no victories, you wouldn't be published, you wouldn't have Alexis, you wouldn't have won Kate over. The victories may be small and fleeting, but screw the long defeat, Ricky. Go for the win."

Castle grinned up at him, then looked over at Michael, who erupted into flame and hissed threateningly. Mephistopheles sat back, impressed. Michael said, "This is my game, Rodgers. MY game. You'll never win. Rosie will give you a makeover you won't believe. You won't even know yourself."

A strange sense of peace fell over Rick. He said, "I'm a sore loser. That won't change."

"You should fold while you still have time," said Mephistopheles. He wasn't talking to Rick.

Petros smiled over at Rick. "I see you. And I'll raise you." He stabbed Rick in the heart with a large syringe.

Castle heard a distant, regular beeping noise, which surprisingly matched the rhythm of his own heart. How odd.

* * *

They moved him to a private room and kept him in an induced coma for six days. Someone pulled some strings (and it may not have been completely legal or ethical) that allowed his family a round-the-clock vigil: his mother, his father, his daughter, his wife, her father. Nobody wanted him to awaken alone in a hospital bed. The room was also guarded 24-7 with people the bride personally knew, and anyone who entered had their identity double-checked.

"Castle. Rick, it's time to wake up."

When he awoke, there were tubes in all sorts of awkward places, he couldn't speak for the one down his throat, and he couldn't move. His left thumb was firmly in Kate's grasp. She leaned over and cupped his jaw with her hand, the love in her eyes beaming out at him. It was tough to open his eyes, as if there were weights on the lids.

"Castle? You in there, Babe?" Her gaze was anxious, searching. His head ached a little, but not too badly.

He blinked at her as well as he could with his swollen eyes. Squeezed her thumb weakly. So he could move–just not very much. He tried hard to look at her. She was crying, so hopeful, so scared.

A small, pleasant woman, possibly Indian, leaned in. "Hello, Mr. Castle, I'm Dr. Patel. We're going to remove your feeding tube now. Just relax. You may feel some discomfort."

"She's lying, Castle," Beckett warned him with a grin. "Go ahead and relax, but it's horrible. But you'll be fine. I'll stay here with you. Understand? If you do, squeeze twice."

He squeezed her hand again, twice, as she bade him.

The doctor was indeed lying, it was horrible in all kinds of awkward places, he was fine, and Kate stayed.

* * *

When he was finally able to speak, the first words out of his mouth were neither, "I love you," nor "Kate, I'm so glad you're here" nor even, "Can I have some pudding?"

Afraid to forget, he croaked out, "Girl. Old Haunt. Sewer passage."

The expression of joy fell off of Kate's face like a ballerina into a pit of alligators. "What are you talking about?"

"Water?"

The doctor was frozen, staring at him in concern. "Yes, of course." She handed a straw-cup to Castle. "Take tiny sips."

Rick drank a little and cleared his throat.

The doctor held up three fingers. "How many am holding up?"

"Three. Barack Obama. May 2014. Anything else?"

"Your full name?"

"Richard Edgar Alexander Rogers Castle." He slurred a little and his voice was raspy, but he was all there.

The doctor smiled at Kate's look of relief. "Good enough for me."

"What was I talking about when I woke up?"

"A girl. The Old Haunt?"

"Yeah. The basement. The accountant. Thought he was just surfing internet porn. He'd be down there for hours at a time."

Beckett was already speed-dialing Esposito. "What's his name?"

"Albert Grossmann. Two ns."

"Hey, Espo, he just woke up." She set the phone on speaker.

Esposito's response was simple: "Yo! Bro. How ya doin'?"

"Yo!" croaked Castle. His throat was raw from the tube. And that thing about anally stepping on a cactus? We won't go into it. He found a control button and adjusted the angle of his bed.

Beckett continued, "I want you to send a couple units to check out the Old Haunt. Remember the cellar with the secret passage? Yeah, behind the bookcase..." She went on to ask for an APB on an accountant named Albert Grossmann, and added, "You won't need a warrant to search the place. Armando should be on duty for the afternoon shift; just tell him the Castles sent you."

"Damn straight," said Castle, and raised his ice cup in a little toast.

* * *

Esposito actually went to Gates and reported the lead. "How would Mr. Castle know..." her face grew troubled.

Espo shrugged. "I guess it's a hunch. Maybe he saw something out of place and it didn't register till now."

Gates shrugged a little. "I suppose that could happen."

Ryan had followed him into the office. "What gives?"

Esposito explained the situation. Ryan said, "Tyson's tried to frame Castle before. Hiding a kidnapped girl in the Old Haunt..."

Ryan said, "That's not much of a stretch."

The detectives looked hopefully at Captain Gates. Esposito said, "You think the FBI's gonna take the lead seriously?"

Ryan added, "Oh, Scooby, it was all a crazy dream."

Gates surveyed their two faces, tilted identically with adorable pouts, and hid a smile. "Apparently you've been taking puppydog-eye lessons from that man." She scowled a little – mostly out of habit. "You have ten minutes' lead time..."

They bolted out of her office and were already collecting gear at their desks.

"... Bring Karpowski too; if there's really a kidnapped girl in there, she may been assaulted, and it will be best to have a female officer along." Karpowski was up and rummaging for her badge and gun.

"... and then I'm calling the FBI in. I want a patrol car as backup..."

Screw the elevator. Karpowski raced them down the stairs.


	14. Chapter 14

**TooSoon Chapter 14 – A Hair Out of Place**

_Everything will change  
Nothing stays the same  
Nobody here's perfect  
Oh, but everyone's to blame  
Oh, all that you rely on  
And all that you can save  
Will leave you in the morning  
And find you in the day_

Oh, you're in my veins  
And I cannot get you out  
Oh, you're all I taste  
At night inside of my mouth  
Oh, you run away  
'Cause I am not what you found  
Oh, you're in my veins  
And I cannot get you out

In My Veins – Andrew Belle

* * *

Twenty minutes after Kate called in the tip to Esposito, she was feeding Rick from a container of blueberry yogurt. He was starving, even more for her presence than for the food. She gave him the last spoonful, which he swallowed with an appreciative moan. She said, "I draw the line at wiping your mouth for you." Technically she hadn't needed to feed him, but it was fun, and it gave her something to do with her hands. He took the napkin she offered him.

"Any chance of a mirror?" he asked.

She hesitated and grimaced. "You look pretty good, all things considered.

"That bad."

She nodded. "Remember when you made yourself up as a zombie?"

His heart sank. "Worse than that?"

She nodded again. "Oh, yeah." She handed him a mirror compact out of her purse. It was about 3" diameter, and he had to scan it around to get the whole picture. His whole face was pretty much one big bruise, the purple fading to green at the edges. The doctors had fixed his nose, stitched up the cut over one eye, and the split on his lip had healed up on its own, although it would likely leave a little scar. But from the eyebrows up, his head was swathed in bandage, and in the gaps he could see underneath...

Martha, Alexis, and Jackson heard him scream from the hallway as they approached his room. They started running. The guard stopped them, then thrust the door open, weapon first. Kate jumped up. "It's okay! I it's okay, he's just upset."

"They shaved- They shaved my head. They SHAVED my HEAD? _THEY SHAVED MY HEAD!"_

The guard relaxed, holstered his gun, and let the family in. Kate was trying to calm him down. "Rick, it's ok. It's just hair."

"It's not just hair. It's – It's _my_ hair," he squeaked.

Martha swept into the room. "Either that or they would have had to give you a brain transplant, Darling." Her breezy demeanor only added to his sense of her relief.

"I did not give them permission to shave. My. _Head_."

Alexis looked radiantly happy to see him. She kissed the small area of exposed jawline that wasn't either swollen, discolored, or bandaged. "Dad. Wait till you see your scar. It's... well, so gross it's cool?"

He looked a bit mollified. "Bragging rights?"

Alexis nodded. "I saw it when they were changing the bandages. Seven stitches across your left temple, and a stent to channel fluid off your brain. That worked pretty well, so they took it out."

Rick was impressed.

Kate said, "You can go as Frankenstein for Halloween."

Castle pouted. "I've already done that before."

Jackson said, "You can go as the remake. Son of Frankenstein."

"I'll be Bride of Frankenstein," Kate grinned.

But that went right past Rick. He was staring at his father, questioning reality. "I... You're still here?"

Jackson nodded. "I'm not going anywhere."

Rick's face closed down. "I'll believe that when I see it."

Martha took Jackson's elbow. "Richard," she said. "We all need to talk."

Rick nodded, as well as he could with all the stuff all over his head. His expression fell to something dark, somber. "Kate, would you please call my lawyer's office?"

Kate frowned a little. "Why?"

"I should talk to him before I make a statement. Or talk to anyone about... stuff."

"Castle, you don't need to..."

He looked at Alexis. "Pumpkin, can you go get us some coffee? I have a headache you would not believe."

Alexis stood firm. "Dad. I'm almost nineteen. I can handle whatever you can dish out." She decided to leave _"I nearly brained a serial killer with a lawn gnome,"_ for later. "Come on, I voted in the last election."

Rick's eyes closed in pain. "Please."

Kate said gently, "Rick. I was so afraid I'd have to tell her the worst news she could possibly ever hear. Anything you can say has to be better. And she's right, Babe." Kate resorted to teasing a little. "She's more adult than you'll ever be."

Rick's smile ghosted, then crumpled in distress. The room was silent while he mastered himself, the clock ticking softly, a long, agonizing moment. "Mother, would you sit down, please?"

Jackson pulled up a chair and bade Martha sit. She leaned close to him on the bed rail. "It's going to be all right," she said softly.

Finally Kate said, "Rick. It's okay. 3XK's dead."

"That's not it. I killed him. I killed my own brother, all right?" He watched Martha's expression, praying for forgiveness, tears streaming down his face. He frowned at her. "Why don't you look surprised?"

"Oh, Richard." She took his hand and swallowed back tears. "I know. They ran the DNA."

Rick was glaring at his mother. "You _knew_ about him?"

"It was a match for both you and your mother," said Jackson.

"And yours as well?" said Kate.

Jackson nodded. "I got a DNA sample from Richard's wine glass a few years ago at a party."

Rick glared at him. "What did you do that for?"

"Just for confirmation. I'd had an eye on you all since you were a boy, of course, but it was hard to get discreet testing done..." he shrugged. "Just wanted to be sure."

Martha said tartly, "That was efficient of you." In truth, she hadn't been entirely certain.

Jackson continued. "If you're twins, Michael was my son as well," he said heavily.

Rick's tears ran freely, his body trying to curl in on itself. "Michael. I never knew his real name. I let him burn to death."

Kate said, "Castle, Michael was 3XK. He would have killed you."

"That doesn't matter."

Alexis's face was white. "You _knew_ 3XK was your brother?"

"I guessed. It just kind of hit me, sometime between the time his car ran me off the road and the moment my airbag blew." He could feel Martha's hands trembling. He gritted, "Mother, _why didn't you tell me about him?"_

"I didn't know."

"Oh, come on, Mother, you may be the Queen of Self-Deception but..."

"Richard!" She set aside her own hurt at the insult. "I thought he was stillborn. I was drugged when I gave birth, I never even saw him." Now it was her turn to cry. "It was just you and me. You were just a little boy. I thought about it, but it just got harder. What was I going to do? Tell you every sordid detail when..."

"It wasn't sordid. It was the truth, Mother."

"_You_ were my truth. Your youth and innocence went by too fast as it was. You had no father. Why burden you with your brother's death? We barely made it through some days on our own, and when we encountered Michael and his adoptive mother in preschool..."

Rick interrupted softly. "That was him? The psycho kid with the shoelace?"

Kate said, "They're still trying to find the records through the Head Start archives. They're sealed, so we had to get a subpoena."

Martha continued. Jackson took her other hand, and Alexis was caressing her stooped shoulder. "I tried so hard to be a good mother to you, I just..." she shrugged. "I made so many mistakes. So many."

Rick's voice was almost inaudible. "Yeah, you did." He paused a long time. "I could have saved him."

Kate's hand was on Rick's good knee. She shook him gently. "When?"

"Years ago. If I'd know, I would have reached out to him, I'd..."

"You'd have let him kill you? Followed him into killing instead of just writing about it?" Kate's voice was strong. "Castle, he was _sick_. From the very start. And he wanted to take you down with him. You can't save a person who's determined to destroy himself."

Castle's head rose, and under the puffy eyelids his eyes were bright blue. "You did."

"Oh, Babe, no. No. If anything, we saved each other. You _do_ have a self-destructive streak, but you also have such a big heart. You're a good man, a good father, a wonderful friend. Castle, I love you. But, if I hadn't come along, something else would have shaken you out of that downward spiral. You _chose_ me as your muse, but your instinct has always been to create, not to destroy. _You saved yourself._ You're stronger than you know."

"How do I know I'm not as sick as he was?"

Jackson said quietly, "Because you're hurting, son."

"Being sorry doesn't change the fact I killed him," said Rick. Silently, he thought, _"And I'm not sure exactly how sorry I am." _

Kate said, "The crash scene was analyzed very carefully. He was killed in an explosion that _he_ caused. There were signs you fought, is that true?"

Rick nodded sadly. "Yeah."

"Do you really think you had time to save both yourself and him?"

"There was the tunnel. Maybe I could have dragged him in..."

"You knew about the tunnel where they found you?" Jackson had heard about it, but Kate hadn't thought to mention the map, and somehow it hadn't really come up.

"I explored it while I was researching a book, years before they sealed it up."

Kate nodded. _"Deep in Desire." _

"Yeah!" He lit up, just a little. "You finally read it?"

"No, I just looked at the pictures, Tootsie." They shared a long look, and he decided to explore the subject of romance novels in more depth with her later. She grinned, trapping the tip of her tongue between her teeth. She was trying to help him feel better, and even though he still felt like a piece of shit, it was hard to resist her efforts. Just the fact that she tried to make him feel good... damn, it just made his heart sing.

Alexis slapped Kate's arm gently. "Audiobook."

Rick nodded. "So yeah. I just knew. I knew he was coming for us, I just didn't know when. I had so many contingency plans..." he sighed. "I just wanted to keep us all safe, but I didn't want to seem paranoid." He lay back and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted.

Martha said, "Did you have a chance to talk with him at all?"

Rick said flatly, "He didn't say anything you'd want to hear."

Martha stroked his hand. "When you were small, Richard," her voice shook. "Before you were in preschool, you used to pretend that Mister Rogers was your dad."

On hearing that, Jackson had to turn his face away a little in shame. This caught Alexis' eye, and she gave him a gentle smile, which her grandfather hesitantly returned.

Castle's lips twitched in an embarrassed smile. "You really don't have to make that public knowledge, mother."

"It was a very logical conclusion, considering. You'd watch him every day. You remember Charlene, the nanny with the orange lipstick?"

"Vividly."

"She told me you'd sit down with your snack, in front of Mister Rogers, and insist that your imaginary brother get a snack, too. Of course you ate it for him, but she just split yours in half."

"Ants-on-a-log and chocolate milk. Two plates, two cups."

"Every weekday at 2 pm, for two years. I didn't know what to make of it. I thought... I thought you'd made up an imaginary friend."

"Just one of many," Rick murmured.

"After you started preschool, you never mentioned your imaginary friend again, even when I took you out of the class."

Rick nodded. "I'm sure it was a developmental thing."

"Your imaginary friend's name was Mike."

Kate said, "Mike's a very common name."

Rick leaned his head back on the pillow and sighed, closing his eyes again. "Yeah. Common name."

Kate said gently, "Want some time by yourself, Castle?"

He nodded. Kate kissed his jaw and whispered, "We'll get through this." He could barely hear out of his left ear anymore; it was still ringing, but he felt her voice in his veins. She left a box of tissues by his left hand. He wound up needing them.

* * *

Ryan's unmarked car pulled up at the Old Haunt, followed by an NYPD patrol car. No sirens, no lights. The uniforms waited outside on the corner. Ryan, Karpowski, and Esposito strolled casually up to the bar. "Hey, Armando."

He was slicing up limes. "Hey, guys. You heard any news about Rick?"

Ryan shook his head. "Far as I know, he's still in a coma."

Armando shook his head. "Man. That just sucks. Poor Kate."

Castle always introduced her as Kate at the bar. Sometimes when it got busy and they were hanging out, she'd wait tables a little. Sass the customers. Everyone loved her.

He put the lime slices in a bowl and started on a lemon. "What can I get you?"

"Nothing, thanks," said Karpowski.

"You seen Grossman lately?"

"What, the accountant? Not today."

"When's the last time he was in?"

"He's been in every afternoon, sometime between two and four. Just sits down there, I guess. He's quiet. Keeps to himself."

"Did he ever bring anyone down there with him?"

"Not that I saw." Armando's brown eyes widened. "What, you mean like a date?"

"Maybe. Seen any of these girls around?" Armando looked over photos of the three kidnapped girls.

"Nope." He frowned. "Weren't they kidnapped recently? New Jersey?"

"Long Island."

Armando shook his head. "Man, I hope they find 'em."

Esposito pulled out a composite drawing of Jerry Tyson. "Ever seen this man?"

"Oh, sure, except the nose is kinda wrong. Too short. And the eyebrows are too, I dunno, just too much."

"But it's close."

"Yeah. He was doin' some repairs down in the basement, said the ol' passage had a leak. Showed me the work order."

"When was that?"

"Month ago?"

"Who made the work order out?"

"Grossmann did."

The three cops exchanged a glance. Armando said, "What."

Karpowski said, "Did Castle know about the work order?"

"Well, why wouldn't he if Grossmann was payin' the bills?" He looked a little anxious. "Oh, man, am I gonna lose my job over this?"

Ryan grinned. "Hell no. Can you let us down in the basement?"

"Sure." Armando produced the trapdoor key, and the three cops went down the stairs. Karpowski said, "So where's the access thingy?"

Ryan said, "Bookcase." They pulled it aside. A few months after he purchased the Old Haunt, Castle had thrown a party, proudly showing his friends around the speakeasy's nooks and hidey-holes. He'd found a lot of interesting stuff behind the old paneling. Mostly crumpled-up newspaper insulation, but also a lady's blue velvet garter with a jeweled buckle.

Karpowski said, "This looks the same. Anyplace someone could be locked up down here?"

They all switched on their flashlights. Amongst the cells of the old sewer, a brick wall had been repaired with fresh mortar. The door was new, its frame reinforced with new ashlar-cut stone, also freshly mortared, where brick had once crumbled a little. There was a lock on it. No kicking this monster in. Esposito tapped loudly. "Anyone in there?"

They heard a girl's voice on the other side of the door. "Hello? Is someone out there?"

Karpowski stepped up. "NYPD. Are you locked in?"

"Yes! Oh my God, help me!"

"What's your name, Ma'am?"

"Kayla Twimbly!"

* * *

Kate ran down the hospital corridor and skidded to a stop before the guard. "Hey, Erick!" she beamed, and slammed into the room. Rick had been sitting there and had a pile of blood-streaked kleenexes wadded up and scattered around on his lap. She brushed them aside and sat on the bed next to him, trying mightily not to squash his last remaining usable limb.

"What is it?" He was barely past a crying jag, his eyes sore, trying to hide the evidence of his meltdown. He gave up and brushed all the wadded tissues onto the floor.

"It's Ryan. I'll put him on speaker."

She had strawberry milk shake all over her blouse, and she was clutching her cell phone in her shaking hand.

They heard Ryan's voice. "Hey, Castle. I hear you're up and around?"

"Well, at least I'm around," he said. Both Ryan and Kate sounded so excited he felt himself climbing out of the dark despite himself. "What happened?"

"Kayla's safe. Kayla Twimbly, the girl from Montauk?"

"Where did they find her?"

"You mean where did _we_ find her. Your accountant, Grossman had a nice little love nest built in the Old Haunt basement. Right where you thought."

"No shit. Really?" A sort of sob escaped Rick, but this was joy. "She's ok?"

"Hard to say. She's... She's been through a lot. But she's a fighter, mad as hell. We're expecting him in a few minutes, and she wants us to help him bring her down. In fact, she practically begged."

Kate grinned. "You have enough backup?"

"Oh, yeah. We're working with the FBI. Jordan Shaw's been assigned to the case."

"Wow."

"Gates asked for her."

Castle added, "Double wow. Where are you?"

"At the bar. We called Brian in since he's the manager, he's on board with us. Grossmann should be here about 25 minutes. We're just gonna have some nice cold soda pops and watch Temptation Lane till he shows up for work."

"You know him, right?"

"Sure. He looks sort of like Beaker from the Muppets."

"That's Grossmann." Castle was now beaming with joy. "I can't believe this."

"This is our first real break in the kidnappings, Castle." Ryan's voice was serious. "So you'd better believe it."

"Well, thanks for... I dunno. Taking me seriously?"

"Ha. Never. Now go kiss your wife."

Castle beamed over at Kate. "You don't need to remind me. But do me a favor, grab the backup from the books. It's under the desk."

Kate said, "Keep us posted. Bye." She hung up and gazed at Rick. "I have mixed feelings," she said.

He nodded. "You want to know how I knew?"

"Yeah. The implications scare me a little."

"Well, I didn't know, it was just a guess. I just... I had this funny dream while I was out, and it reminded me about something on the books at the Haunt. I was caught up in the wedding so I decided to put off asking Grossmann about it until the honeymoon. And he did show me the new storeroom he was having built, talking about putting in a fridge unit and kitchen area so we could serve our own food. Give the employees a better break room. All they really have is a closet..."

"It gets damp during snowy weather." Every time she hung her coat up there, it came out smelling like mildew.

"Yeah. So I signed off on it, but I never really looked at what I was signing, and there might have been things I didn't approve."

"So you think 3XK was using your business to frame you?"

"Yeah."

She groaned. "Oh, that bastard."

Castle sighed. "Yeah, him and me both."

"No, no, Rick, I didn't mean it that way!"

He took her hand as well as he could. "It's ok. I'm just... you know, underneath the coldness, the planning... what makes a person do this? What happened to him?"

Kate shook her head. "Maybe you shouldn't dig too deeply. Maybe you don't want to know."

He hesitated. "Didn't I say something like that about your mom's death?"

She bit her lip. "But you also said I wouldn't have to do it alone."

"So? What happens to the other two girls? They were his leverage."

"We found my mom's killer, together. And we put him away, together. So no matter what happens... Castle?"

A smile grew between them, bittersweet. She said, "I've got your back."

* * *

I am so blown away by the positive reviews I've received on this story. It's gone on MUCH longer than I expected and I appreciate your patience.

Does anyone want a makeout session? I'm debating on how M this should get.


	15. Chapter 15

I'm not sure whether this really moves the plot forward

but the next chapters are so heavy, I needed some...

**Creamy, Delicious Fluff**

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 15a – You Can Leave Your Hat On**

**Rated R for Racy**

_Baby, take off your coat...real slow  
Baby, take off your shoes...here, I'll take your shoes  
Baby, take off your dress  
Yes, yes, yes  
You can leave your hat on  
You can leave your hat on  
You can leave your hat on_

Go on over there and turn on the light...no, all the lights  
Now come back here and stand on this chair...that's right  
Raise your arms up in to the air...shake 'em  
You give me a reason to live  
You give me a reason to live  
You give me a reason to live

_**You can Leave Your Hat On – Randy Newman**_

_(p.s. This is one of the sexiest songs ever_

_and if you haven't heard it...go for the Joe Cocker version_

_ watch?v=hfgwrdYUQ2A )_

After eight days, five surgeries, four changes in meds, one crime-solving triumph (the rescue of Kayla Twimbly) seven sponge baths, five enlightening but painful father-son talks and mother-son arguments, not nearly enough time alone with Kate, and a world of frustration, Richard Castle was in the second worst possible situation (barring being drugged by a serial killer in a cave full of bat shit): he was bored out of his mind.

It was even worse than the time he dislocated his knee skiing, but now Kate seemed too upset and distracted to have any fun surprises up her sleeve. And he really couldn't expect the world to revolve around him. Hospital visits are often forced and difficult... nobody really wants to be there, now do they? His loving, wonderful family and his few close friends came and went, but the world didn't even know he'd been found; law enforcement wanted to keep his whereabouts and status under wraps so that 3XK's team would be less likely to put him or his family in jeopardy again. So he couldn't exactly go on Tweeter or Myface.

He couldn't read comfortably because his eyes were still sore; listening to stories and books was still a little frustrating because his ears still rang; his hands were a mess so he couldn't play games on his own, let alone do anything else with them like type or write or, well, whatever. The doctors weren't ready to let him go for a few more days; they wanted to make sure that everything was okay since they'd taken the stent out of his skull. He wondered if the room was big enough for a treadmill. Then he remembered the state of his ankle. They let him limp around a bit, but he had to stay out of sight, so there was nowhere to go. The physical therapist had given him massages and stretches, and done some kind of micro-ultrasound-massage thingy wherever he had scarring, to prevent adhesions. But he really couldn't move around much on his own because his hands were useless with crutches. _Fuck._

He made up stories in his head to pass the time. He obsessed about Michael – who he was, what he'd done, how things might have gone differently. His mind went around in circles, wondering where and how he might have prevented the inevitable. And he couldn't get the fight, the fire, the explosion, out of his mind. The look on Michael's face. How for a moment, when his tuxedo caught fire but before the pain really sank in, he looked at Rick and smiled. Really smiled, before he started screaming.

* * *

After his burly man-nurse, Hogan, gave him a depressingly prosaic sponge bath, Rick fell asleep half-watching Rockford Files reruns. He dreamed about Kate. He woke up a bit after 6 pm, horny as hell, to a Venezuelan Ass Blaster infomercial, the girls in leotards gyrating and pumping their nonexistent flab away. Not a lot he could do about that, one hand broken and the other raw. A soft knock came at the door. He tucked his knees up, the light cotton blanket concealing his awkward state. "Yes?" _(Please don't let it be anyone but Kate.)_

His lovely fiancee peeked in. "Hey, you're awake," she smiled. She stepped into the room carrying a large tote bag. Despite the warm day, she was buttoned up in a trench coat. "I hear you had a bath."

He nodded miserably. "Such as it was. I want to go home."

"I want you there," she said. "But, since you can't be there... can I want you here?"

"Not half as much as I want you."

She walked over to him and kissed him, long and lingering, careful not to bump his nose. As passion renewed in him, he almost forgot that he looked like a potato from the bottom of the barrel, and she gave no indication she noticed. He groaned into her mouth, then broke away, gasping. "It's no good, Kate, I can barely move."

"Maybe you don't have to." She turned back to the door, locked it, and for good measure, braced the steel-and-upholstered side chair under the door knob.

She had his interest. "Kaaaaate?"

She turned off the nattering TV and the fluorescent, ugly overhead light and the room became a much nicer place. He had a private balcony in this very expensive private hospital room, with a sliding glass door and layered shades that filtered the late-afternoon light. Or early evening. It was mid-June, and the sun stayed out nearly till 8.

She put some red lipstick on, slowly and carefully. Normally when she did that it was destined to come right off again. She narrowed her eyes a little. It made her look fierce, like a woman in a Robert Palmer video from the 80s. "You need a special nurse."

"A physical therapist?"

She shook her head.

"A nurse practitioner excelling in humiliating procedures?"

"Hell no. That was the afternoon nurse who gave you a sponge bath and changed your bandages."

"Oh. Yeah. The Incredible Bulk."

"You just need some tender, _specialized_, care." She kicked off her shoes and reached into the bag, pulling out some white, platform, patent leather boots that clung to her calves, nearly up to her sculpted-by-angels little knees. Rick found himself wondering exactly what was under her trench coat. He cleared his throat.

"Are we talking Naughty Nurse here?" he croaked.

She reached for his ice-water cup and held the straw to his lips. "Suck on this, Lover."

He sucked obediently, trying to see down the collar of her trench coat. He saw a trace of white lace and crowed, "Are you the elusive and possibly mythical Slutty Night Nurse Nancy?"

She set down the drink with a knowing smirk.

Rick grinned, although it made his face hurt. "I thought this day would never come." He let his legs stretch out again, but the light blanket over his lap wouldn't quite lie flat.

She untied the knotted belt of her trench then unbuttoned the coat slowly. "This takes so long," she mock-pouted. "It's double-brrrrreasted." He loved it when she rolled her Rs.

"Wish I could help." The first item of clothing he'd ever helped remove from her had been a coat, and he felt a little sad to be left out.

"No, no. You're the patient today." She turned her back to him, peeked over his shoulder at his lap. "I see we have our thermometer all warmed up," she smirked. The coat slid slowly off her shoulders.

"Oh, I think if you take a reading you'll find it's hot," he said.

"Don't touch it, you might bust the bulb... send all those little balls of Mercury scattering all over the room."

He grinned. "Those balls of Mercury can get away from you."

She tossed the coat onto the second side chair. He breathed, "Oh, my God. _The_ Night Nurse Nancy costume." They both loved costumed play and there were quite a lot of nurse costumes out there, some more attractive than others. He'd wish-listed this one, but she'd always refused to dress up as a nurse before. Now he was glad she'd waited.

The entire outfit was crisp white, setting off her golden skin. Her short-sleeved, button-down blouse was made of sheer lace, and the petticoat skirt flared out, making her waist look even tinier than usual. Underneath, he could see more lace: a lightly boned corset framing satin bra cups. Tiny lace-and-satin panties. Lace-topped stockings embracing the tops of her luscious thighs.

Then she turned her back to him, bent forward at the hip, and reached into her bag. Rick was treated to a full view of her bottom in those very brief briefs, her legs slightly spread, the skirt flipped up a little and floating atop her bum like a soft cloud. The barest hint of fabric between him and his favorite place in the known universe. She rummaged in the bag and peeked up at him from between her ankles. She grinned wickedly. "I know it's in here somewhere." She straightened up, flipped her gold-touched waves back like Rita Hayworth in Gilda, and pinned a tiny white nurse's hat with a red cross into her hair.

Rick was speechless with lust, his mouth hanging open.

Kate said, "'When the patient is ready, the nurse comes.'"

"How does the patient call the nurse?"

"In a little while, I'll demonstrate proper use of my call button," she purred. She adjusted the controls on his bed so that it was as low as possible, her long legs and tall shoes now showing her panties above the mattress, the skirt hovering like a little cloud. Castle was still reclined, his upper body semi-upright.

She said perkily, "Is there anything Nurse Nancy can do to make Us more comfortable, Mr. Castle?"

"I have multiple injuries and am wearing a charming frock with bows down the back. I could be better."

"I can make you feel better," she said. She leaned over him, her hands on either sides of his shoulders, hands buried in his pillow. "But We have to follow the rules."

"We?"

"I speak Nurse. It's a local dialect. 'We' means 'you'."

Her chest was inches from his face. He knew how she loved alternating friction and smoothness of lace and satin over her skin.

"May I touch?"

"Only with the first two fingers of your left hand. No reaching, no bending, no pulling. No compromising any of Our injuries, Castle. Just touch."

He brushed a finger across her bra, feeling the swell of her response underneath the soft fabric. The scab along his arm and deltoid pulled a little, but it wasn't too bad. He focused on his fingertips and their touching, not the pain. All he wanted to feel was her. "Like this?"

She brushed his lips with hers, stifling a gasp. "Just like that."

She backed away a little, looking at him seriously, speaking in her most authoritative Beckett-voice. "I asked your doctor for permission. The doctor says your threshold of pain will be lowered, so you _cannot_ move."

He blushed. "Really?"

"He agrees it will be good for you, and if you're going to have a full-on stroke, what better place than a hospital?"

He felt a twinge of panic._"Now wait a minute..."_

She went back into character, shimmying. "Night Nurse Nancy will take care of everything."

"Okay. But..." He wasn't whining, but his face was full of longing. "I want to move. I want to touch you. I want to please you."

Her hazel eyes fixed sternly on his. Then she licked her lower lip. "Remember what you did to me with those silk scarves?"

"You couldn't move much." He her controlled writhing under his ministrations, the soft silk, not-too-tight, touching her under and through the fabric, her exultant release. And when he untied her she wrapped herself around him like a silk scarf, deceptively strong, rippling...

She nibbled his ear and he forgot the ringing, homing in on the sound of her voice. "I loved it. So now I'm getting revenge."

"Revenge for something you liked?"

"This kind of revenge is best served hot."

She pulled the blanket down past his feet.

She spoke to - not Little Castle, but Proportionally Perfect Castle.

"Well, hello stranger! How are we doing there?"

Rick twitched and squeaked, "We're sooo lonellllyyyyy!"

His sprained ankle was lightly splinted, but otherwise he wore nothing below the waist. From her magical bag of tricks, (No, her shoulder bag! You with your dirty mind!) she produced a soft, fluffy washcloth from home. "I'll just warm this up," she smiled. He watched her strut to the private bathroom, her skirt swaying around her hips. She reappeared a moment later, came to him and unfolded the warm washcloth. "I'll just prep you a little bit, Mr. Castle. Make sure you're ready for your procedure." The velvety terrycloth felt like a giant, friendly tongue.

"Almost two weeks," he gasped. "I am so ready."

She nodded. "Saving ourselves up for three days before the wedding didn't seem like such a big deal, did it?"

"If I'd known what we were in for, I would've screwed your brains out before I went back to the city."

"Well, when everything comes together... so will we." She grinned. She checked her handiwork. "I think we can conclude all the hospital's been washed off." She ran her tongue from the base to the length of him, her breasts brushing against his inner thigh. He almost lost it right there, feeling poised on a hair-trigger. He retreated into humor.

"Ah! Hope I don't taste like sponge bath soap."

"You taste like you." Her face was soft, glowing in the warm afternoon light. "I've been craving you."

Craving. It crossed his mind again. Was she pregnant? Why did he even think that? He forgot all about it a moment later, blanking out at the sensation she drew from him, slow and warm and wet. He strained to bury himself in that feeling, forget everything but that enveloping bliss.

"You can't move. You have to be still, as much as possible."

He nodded. "I'll be good."

She was back in character again. "Night Nurse Nancy is sure you'll follow Doctor's orders," and she cupped, brushed, twisted gently, pulled. He forgot, everything tensed around his center then he thrust, and felt his hip twinge. He stopped. "Ow."

She made a gentle warning push on his uninjured left hip.

"Uh-uh," she said. "Be patient. Let Naughty Night Nurse Nancy do her job." She worked hand and mouth together, quickly setting a steady rhythm. She figured that if she prolonged it too much, he'd build up to the point of forgetting, thrashing around, and she didn't want that. "You don't want to hurt yourself." She wanted him home. She wanted him inside her, desperately, but she knew it was the wrong time, the wrong place, that they were both too strong and too inclined to get caught up in the moment.

He begged "Stop, Kate, please, I want to see you, I want to see..."

She grinned wickedly, backed down off the bed. "Do we want to be an informed patient?"

"I'll sign any form you want, just please..." His left hand fisted, his right foot curled at the toes, he shifted his hips a little. There was nothing else he could do. "I'm going crazy."

She considered a moment, walked around the bed. Unbuttoned her blouse slowly then tossed it over to the trench coat pile.

"Corset," she said. "Hardly conducive to unfettered nurse's ministrations."

It laced up the front, the ribbon chris-crossed between grommets. Beautiful, soft white ribbon, harmless, delicate, and completely in their mutual control. She placed the bow's end between his teeth, and he bit down. She pulled back, and the bow untied in a silent surrender to his tug. "I appreciate your cooperation, Mr. Castle," she said. "Now, are we starting to feel a little better?"

"Oh, yes." He glanced down at his lap. "We are doing so much better now." _We are, in fact, doing a very happy little dance, all on our own._

He said, "Nurse, can you call me just Castle?"

"Castle."

She unlaced the corset slowly from the top, and its parting put the pearly gates of Heaven to shame. Her breasts, now bare, were pink-gold in the sunset light through the vertical blinds. She leaned over him, guided a nipple to his mouth, and he sucked for all he was worth. She moaned, pulled away, let him have the other side too.

"Not too hard," she murmured. "I have PMS, they're a little sore."

He looked up at her adoringly. "Sorry." cupped her right tit as well as he could in his left fingers. Kissed it. Sucked more softly, swirled with his tongue. "Better?"

"Mmmm." She nodded, feeling the mysterious connection between breasts and groin, her inner muscles clenching in anticipation. "Oh, yes." She let him play with her chest for a while, until she was in danger of forgetting everything and putting Nurse Nancy out of a job. "Keep the skirt or lose it?"

"Keep," he gasped, running his tongue along her collar bone and into the hollow of her throat, touching everything he could reach without pain. She presented herself like a map to be read. A little pirate voice in his head growled: _"Here be treasure."_

"Panties?"

"Off."

She pushed back off the bed, stood upright on one foot and easily removed the panties without stumbling (thank you, Tree Pose). "Where do you want me?"

"I want to press the call button," he whispered.

She handed him the wired call button with a grin, and he waved it away.

"Not that one."

"Oh. You don't want just any old nurse?" she teased.

"I just want you," he whispered. Her clean, womanly scent wafted over him, and if possible he grew even harder than he'd already been. They had done this before, many times, but never quite like this: This red-gold light; this narrow bed; this silly, crazy-beautiful seafoam-light skirt trembling and frothing at her every quiver. "I'm calling you, Kate. Calling your name."

Something in his voice knocked away all the play-acting. "Yes. Call me," she gasped. "Call me Kate."

She stood by him, almost where he could reach, and moved her knees apart. The skirt was so short, it didn't even hide her sex.

"Come to me, Kate."

He crooked his finger, beckoning to her, and come she did, to the place where he knew her better than anyone. She gripped the handrail of the bed, white-knuckled, as she rode his hand like a wild horse in a thunderstorm. She groaned, "I want to kiss it better, Castle. I want to make it better."

"Come heal me, Kate."

"Oh, God, Castle!" She collapsed onto him, spasming, kissed his lips, his chin, the tip of his nose SO tenderly, the cut over his eye, the bandage over his temple, softly down his scraped left arm and his broken wrist, on his hip, his knee, his sprained ankle. She moved her way down his body, touching everything, caressing everything. She connected the damaged with the healthy, heart and mind and muscle and bone. He felt sparks coming out of her fingers, reminding every available nerve of the real reason they existed: pleasure, not pain. And then she performed an act of healing so hot, so deep, so earth-shatteringly _profound_ that he had to cry out in ecstasy.

The guard knocked.

"Uh, are you folks all right in there?"

Rick's body went tight as a drum, frustrated and fascinated since usually he was able to control the drumsticks. He swore, but could not stop. Climax welled up from deep within him, pent up far too long, pounding through layers of grief and pain and murky fear, pushing toward something sweet, pure, clean. _  
_

He was enthralled with it, lost in it, taken by it, still and hard as stone, and then he let go. _"You give me reason to live, you give me reason to live..." _

The guard knocked again.

Kate swallowed and called out with a grin, "We're good. Erick. We're great. Thanks."

She looked at Rick and spoke softly. He was still drifting between spasms of pleasure. "_Are_ we good, Castle?"

He nodded, too overwhelmed to speak, tears streaming. She held him, encasing and comforting him, until the swell of his desire subsided. He finally murmured, "We are so much better now. SO much better."

Kate took a sip of ice water, sealed her lips gently against his, and let it flow into his mouth. He swallowed it with a rapt smile and whispered, "I know what love is." His eyes closed.

* * *

She just really couldn't fit on the bed with him, not without hurting him. But after she dressed in a soft T and yoga pants, she pillowed her head on the most perfect belly in the world: still muscular and strong despite the long hospitalization, but with just enough cush to make it welcoming. She gazed at his poor, rearranged face. Her long, gold-kissed waves sprawled silky on his hips.

Her eyes drifted closed, and sometime after twilight, the room deep in violet shadow, his voice brought her back: "That was... beyond bliss." Eyes closed, he reached for her, his free fingers smelling like her when he caressed her cheek.

She smiled a little sadly. "I wanted... I wanted our wedding night to be romantic, but..." she shrugged. "We have to wait for that. Meanwhile, I thought you could use a little fun."

"There's nothing as romantic as having a wife who really gets me." He smiled. "Don't worry. We'll have our wedding night. Somewhere beautiful. Somewhere private and safe."

A shadow crossed his face and he sighed. She reached up and stroked his jaw, then kissed his lips gently. "Safe." She lay back down on his belly. She rubbed it gently. "Make a wish."

His stomach gurgled a little. "Real food."

"I know. I've had a few meals in the cafeteria, and the coffee's undrinkable. Doctor said it's ok if I order you takeout tonight."

"When's the last time you had a cup of coffee?" he asked.

"The morning you were admitted at the ER."

"That's days ago!"

"I know! Must've put me off. My stomach was already in knots, and it smelled so bad I couldn't even finish the cup. Guess I miss my own private barista."

She felt his body stiffen a moment, his abs contracting as he raised his head to look at her. "If I weren't so familiar with your sexual proclivities I'd swear my evil twin had swapped you out for a coffee-resistant version."

She sat up, startled. "I can't believe you're joking about that." She was oddly pleased, and it showed.

He said, "Honestly, I don't know what else to do. If I lose my sense of humor, do the serial killers win?" Rick shrugged, trying not to show the bitterness he felt.

"I think I understand. Gallows humor..." she searched for the words. "It makes us feel stronger than our grief."

He nodded. "I guess everyone copes in their own way."

"Yeah," she said. "I'm on this weird jag. I'm taking care of myself so I don't curl up in a ball under your bed and hide till you're better."

"So, no coffee then."

"No. The headaches were a nightmare, but Gates has put me on a mandatory leave of absence while you're in the hospital, so at least I can sleep whenever I want." She didn't mention how much. Eight or nine hours a night, - once eleven! Plus naps. And crazy dreams. And a certain... peculiar feeling in the morning. "And honestly, I've been so stressed out, worried about you, giving statements to the police and FBI. But everyone keeps fussing over me, like they're afraid I'm going to fall apart any moment. Dr. Burke tells me to keep it simple after a trauma - do things like eat and sleep and take baths and relax."

She didn't tell him about the crime scene cleanup at the beach house, or having Jackson Hunt sweep for bugs there, in the loft, and her apartment, in the 12th precinct homicide office, even the locker room. Hunt found things the security investigator had missed – no, deliberately concealed. The tech was arrested and charged, his storage space full of listening devices, a battery of video feeds, some of them unbearably personal. She didn't want to tell Castle that it wasn't safe to go home yet. She'd booked the family hotel rooms, where they were staying under assumed names._ Wait till he's stronger. _

"I'd like to thank those fussy people," he smiled. His eyes cracked open a little, fingers stroking her throat, cupping her breast. "You're so beautiful, although it might be sheer post-pity-fuck gratitude."

"That was NOT a pity-fuck," Becket was scandalized.

He took her hand and kissed it. "Believe me, I know, I just look like Quasimodo."

"You're not so bad, Castle."

He smiled brokenly and murmured, "You said that before." His eyes were sad. "When we were sitting in that hotel room in LA." But he knew this time she was trying to flatter him; he'd seen himself in the mirror that afternoon. The bruises on his face were fading to green and brown, eyes still puffy, nose still swollen, his hair only stubble.

Her eyes teared up. "I didn't know what to do," she said softly. "That night in LA – like so many nights – I wanted you so badly, I... I didn't know how to make it work. I was scared to destroy whatever we had."

"We've been through so much, before LA and since." His voice caught. "And now we're together, and I'm your husband, you're my wife. Nothing... _nothing_ will take that away. We're not done. It's going to get harder. But it turns out we did know how to make it work. It's working now."

He caressed the tears that spilled down her cheeks.

"Yes," she said. "It's working."

She sat up and kissed him again, softly, deeply, and if she forgot and squished down on his nose a little by accident, he didn't fuss about it. She could have hit him over the head with a baseball bat, and he would barely have complained, granted that she'd have put that nurse costume on again and kissed him better.

This time her stomach rumbled. "I wonder if room service delivers strawberry milkshakes?" she mused.

"No, but Esposito would, especially if we lent him the Ferrari again. Shall I ask him to stop by Remy's?"

"Ooh. A spinach mushroom burger with Swiss sounds really good right now."

"You're going to have to speed dial him." Castle gestured awkwardly.

Kate started to dial Esposito and then stopped, her eyes filling with tears again.

"What is it?"

"Here you are, flat on your back in the hospital, and all you can think about is getting me a milkshake."

A slow, sly smile crept across his face. "You mean another milkshake."

She scowled at him. "Don't say a word."

* * *

Esposito showed up to eat dinner with them an hour later, and Erick let him in. At first glance he was alarmed to see that Castle's bandages had little red smudges all over them, as if he'd been bleeding again. But Castle seemed perfectly fine and happy to see him, then Javi realized the red smudges were lipstick. Beckett stepped out of the bathroom a moment later with a smile, having apparently forgotten she was wearing a ridiculous little nurse's had perched on the back of her head. He didn't mention it, and Castle just hid a little smirk at his questioning glance.

Kate drank an entire strawberry milk shake and ate most of her burger with mushrooms and spinach, plus a third of the sweet potato fries. But, uncharacteristically, she picked out the grilled onions.


	16. Chapter 16

Halfway through writing this section, I have to say it's just killing me.I wanted to stop with Castle's rescue, but these people have left a trail of death going back how many years? How many victims do we not even know about? I hate serial killer stories. I never watch stuff like Dexter or Hannibal or even Bones. This is so hard. But I'm supposed to write about what scares me, and for now, I'm going to do that in the name of justice and closing the loop. And then I'm going to go bleach my brain out with som fluff. Because True Love.

* * *

**TooSoon Chapter 16: The Whole Truth**

_We crossed the line, who pushed who over?_  
_It doesn't matter to you, it matters to me._  
_We're cut adrift, but still floating._  
_I'm only hanging on to watch you go down, my love._

_I disappeared in you_  
_You disappeared from me._  
_I gave you everything you ever wanted_  
_It wasn't what you wanted._  
_The men who love you, you hate the most_  
_They pass right through you like a ghost._  
_They look for you, but your spirit is in the air._  
_Baby, you're nowhere._

_Oh, love, you say in love there are no rules._  
_Oh, love, sweet-heart, you're so cruel._

_So Cruel - U2_

* * *

Dr. Kelly Nieman was in a straight jacket, her dyed strawberry-blonde hair greasy, eyes wild, face scratched by her own fingernails. Admitted against her own protest to Krimby Psychiatric Hospital on Charybdis Island in Hudson Bay – a high-security facility with only one bridge as access – she glared at the one-way mirror and snarled. Her words were an ugly mixture of Gaelic and English, "Feicfidh mé sracadh do na scamhóga amach agus iad a rudaí síos do scornach, feckin tú 'idiots" which, roughly translated, was an offer to rearrange their internal organs in a very uncomfortable manner. The minor flesh wound in her shoulder dressed, and her surface injuries tended to, she couldn't tear at her own flesh now, or anyone else's. She was the writhing picture of impotent malice.

Victoria Gates watched her from the other side of the one-way mirror. Next to Gates stood the assigned lead psychiatrist, a petite, dark woman named Dr. Aruna Patel. Agent Jordan Shaw leaned an upraised elbow on the mirror frame. Gates mused, "Is she scamming us, or is she really off the deep end?"

Dr. Patel shook her head. "Her mind has taken a dive, not simply into the deep end, but off a 30th-story swimming pool balcony in Singapore, where it is currently splattered on the pavement."

Agent Shaw smirked. "I assume the Singapore Police arrested her mind for ejecting bodily fluids on the sidewalk."

Dr. Patel giggled. "I suppose she raised some Cain." Her smile faltered. "Raised cane? Get it?"

Shaw gave an appropriately horrified wince. "Good one." They cane peole for littering in Singapore. She'd seen it.

Gates, who was a gifted woman in other ways, seemed to lack the Pun Appreciation Gene, considering them an assault on the English language. Patel concluded the homicide captain didn't have much of a sense of humor (although nobody knew she took guilty pleasure in reruns of the Muppet Show).

Gates sighed. "Can Dr. Nieman even put a sentence together?"

Dr. Patel shook her head. "Mostly expletives and the occasional adverb."

"That woman has caused my people more trouble..." growled Gates.

Shaw nodded. "I know. But it's Monday, Captain. You need to get back to your own jurisdiction. We'll take it from here."

Nieman growled, "I want Castle, and I want him now!"

Gates tilted her head. "I don't want to involve Mr. Castle in questioning her. He's an untrained civilian. He could ruin the investigation."

Shaw said, "If it's life or death, I can coach him through it."

Dr. Patel said, "It will take a while to get Dr. Nieman's meds adjusted anyway. We have time to prepare him if she won't listen to reason."

Gates said, "Oh, give me three minutes with her, I'll give her a reason." But she knew the words were empty.

Shaw cocked an eyebrow at her, in a mix of sympathy and pragmatism. "Not your circus anymore, not your monkey."

Gates chuckled. "I know. Just... I'm sure we'll be closing a few cold cases at the precinct once the intel starts coming in. I trust you'll keep me in the loop?"

Shaw and Patel nodded. "Of course."

"Thank you." She left, worry clouding her brow. She wasn't really concerned about Castle ruining an interrogation. She was concerned that the answers might ruin him.

* * *

Gates left the hospital and went home rather than going straight back to work, just for once. Spent the afternoon with her family, enjoyed their favorite meal: mac 'n' cheese, broccoli, and grilled chicken. They had fragrant, sweet organic May strawberries with ice cream for dessert. She gave her children baths, and together with her wife, got them to bed. She read them a chapter from James and the Giant Peach - a rare treat. ("Mama, are you okay?" "Yes, Love, I'm fine.") She hugged each of them hard then gave goodnight kisses, bade them sweet dreams. Sat up with her wife awhile, just talking, cleaning up after dinner. They went to bed, made love, and cuddled. Her wife drifted off to dreamland with a smile on her careworn face. Then Victoria slipped out of bed, took a quick shower, dressed, and went outside. She paused at the unmarked car parked across the street. "Anything?"

The old man shook his head. "Nothing unusual."

She patted his door. "Thanks, Dad. Call if..."

He winked. "It's okay, Captain Gates. You just do what you gotta do, I'll keep an eye."

"When will Randy come to relieve you?"

"Midnight. Your brother got off shift at 6."

She looked around the tree-lined street of brownstones. It seemed safe. Most likely it was. But they'd gotten word from the three living suspects they'd taken in so far, that Nieman and 3XK had targeted the entire 12th precinct. They were all on notice: Castle's family, Beckett's, everyone who had touched the 3XK case. Even Perlmutter and his doll, having outlived their usefulness, would have been disposed of. And most of the team was still out there. But if – IF – there was no mole at the 12th, they didn't know that Castle was alive. They didn't know that 3XK was dead, and they didn't know that there was a possibility that Kelly Nieman might be persuaded to spill the beans on the whole operation.

So, IF there was no mole, they had a fighting chance. She said, "This won't go on forever, I promise."

Arthur B. Gates knew this. And he knew his daughter. He patted her hand gently with his wrinkled paw. "I know, Little Sir. You've already got them running scared."

She shook her head. "Not as scared as I am."

Mr. Gates, who'd been retired for seven years, had spent most of his life as a cop. "It just doesn't really fit the usual profile, does it? Most serial killers are loners."

"So we've been led to believe. But maybe things are different now, with the internet. Maybe they have ways of coordinating their activities through social media. We've seen these two use surrogate killers before. We can't be too careful, especially since they already targeted several of my people and their families."

He nodded. "Well, good luck getting past me." He was 73, but he still worked out daily and his eyesight was good. Captain Arthur Gates, Retired, was not the sort of cop who lived on coffee and donuts, even in his golden years.

* * *

It was 11:30 pm when she returned to work at the Twelfth Precinct. Ryan and Esposito were already there, poring over satellite pictures of the Long Island countryside. When Victoria Gates emerged from the elevator, they froze, defensive. Each sported bruise-like smudges of exhaustion under their eyes. They'd barely slept since the crash, although each had taken a few hours after Castle was admitted to surgery and safely under guard at the hospital.

They looked surprised at her genuine smile. "I don't normally drink espresso. Either of you want to show me how it's done?" She tilted her head toward the break room, her expression almost shy.

Ryan arose and headed to the espresso machine with her, smiling. "The machine's temperamental, but you'll get the hang of it fast..."

He showed her how to measure the grounds and tamp them, clamped the filter into the machine, twisted, and pushed the button.

She said, "How are your girls?"

Ryan shook his head. "Jenny and the baby checked out fine. They were scared, but not hurt. They're staying at her parents' till we bring all these bastards in."

"Has Jenny checked in with you in the last few hours?"

"Yeah. Cappuccino? Or latte?"

"Let's go with a latte - not so intense." She poured milk into the foaming pitcher. He took it from her and immersed the wand.

He continued, "Not too hot, you're working on the surface foam rather than overheating the milk."

She nodded, took on the job, feeling the whooshing milk warming the jug, vibrating like a small live thing in her hand.

Ryan added, "She says she can see the unmarked car from her bedroom window." He poured the espresso into Gates' mug then poured the milk over.

"Easy foam, I think," she said. "I'm new to this." She took a sip and shuddered. "God, that's a bit much for me..." She put some sugar in it and stirred it in, took another sip. "Not so bad now." She looked at the machine, the drink, and then Ryan.

He raised questioning eyebrows. She said, "Don't tell Mr. Castle about this," she said. "I'd hate to see the smirk on his face."

Esposito took a sip of his already-cold latte and switched to the next screen in the grid. He scanned it carefully, pointed at Screen 52, and murmured, "There." He got on the phone to Jordan Shaw. It was the point of origin for the rampaging Escalade, a parking garage in White Plains. Maybe the parking space would lead it to more intel about 3XK and Dr. Nieman.

* * *

Richard Castle went through surgery, near-death, and an induced short-term coma, and awoke to call for an investigation into his own basement. Not bad for a dilettante detective.

Meanwhile, at Krimby, it took a week even to elicit Dr. Kelly Nieman's real name. She was addicted to a complex cocktail of drugs both prescription and illegal, and withdrawal was an undignified nightmare: screaming, blackouts, convulsions, explosive diarrhea, crawling skin, hallucinations, vomiting, nausea, all despite a careful balancing of antipsychotics, nutrients, electrolytes, soothing music, and and other drugs to bring her back to something like functional. But for a long time after, she would have shakes, aches, and bakes: running occasional fevers, hurting all over, feeling nauseous. Her skin and hair were dull, the un-dyed roots revealing threads of gray. She had begun to show her age. The only mirror she was allowed was the unbreakable one-way at her first coherent interview in the hospital. She stared at it in horror and screamed, then sat mute and refused to say a word.

Several different agencies tried interviewing Nieman about the missing girls, and about the murders she and 3XK had committed, both separately and together. She refused to speak to an investigator or therapist. They even tried a priest who walked out sweating and murmured, "Well, I have to say this is the first time exorcism has ever crossed my mind as a viable option."

Kate Beckett asked Captain Gates and then begged Jordan Shaw to participate in Nieman's debriefing, but due to her own status as an intended victim in the case, she was denied.

Ten days after her arrest, Dr. Nieman was back in an interrogation room. No mirror this time. No longer in a straight jacket, her wrists and ankles were still chained down.

Jordan Shaw sat across the table from her. She read notes from an e-tablet. "Dr. Kelly Nieman. Also known as Eileen Kelly, Eileen O'Leary, See-ob-han..."

"That's pronounced Shevahn." She'd dropped the American accent altogether.

"Siobhan Devlin, Elisabeth Drury..."

Dr. Nieman scoffed. "None of this is news to me."

"...Born Rose Caitlin O'Shaunessy, November 3, 1966, 12 Ennis Square, Kilteirnan, Ireland."

No response.

"Daughter of Irene and John O'Shaunessy, both missing, presumed deceased."

Nieman arched an eyebrow. "That's quite a history you've found, after all the trouble I took to burn off my fingerprints. Give the lady a gold star."

"We find you actually did go through med school at Galway University. Master of Surgery. So that would make you Dr. O'Shaunessy."

"Clever you."

"But you experienced problems with university staff and other students."

"Their problems."

"Intern O'Shaunessy may be best suited as a coroner or assistant surgeon. Despite her excellent technical skills, and her understanding of chemistry, physiology, and procedures, she has great difficulty empathizing with the pain and suffering of both patients and their families and caregivers."

Nieman rolled her eyes. "Yeah, physician heal thyself, yeh dumb fuck."

"Dr. Kelly Nieman's plastic surgery certificates, all the accolades and glowing referrals, the web site - that was all fake."

Kelly smirked. She grew suddenly smooth and polished, purring in a soothing American accent. "Not all. I have a lot of satisfied customers. By the way, a blepharoplasty would do wonders for those bags round your eyes. There's some things a slice of cucumber just can't fix."

Shaw blinked at her, the sum total of her reaction to a tour-du-force performance of surface sanity. "You have nothing to lose by telling me the girls' location. I'm sure you'd rather not be forced to do so."

Nieman snickered. "Sodium thiopental only works if you ask the right question. I have a tolerance, you know that."

"We can test that tolerance."

"You can get a moose to recite the Magna Carta before you can dose me into giving you those girls. I want my storyteller. I want Richard Castle."

"He's still in the hospital. Recuperating."

"What day is it?"

"I don't have to tell you that, Dr. Nieman. That's on a need-to-know basis."

Kelly bared her teeth in something like a smile. "Really! Don't you have things you 'need to know'? Your pretty girls are running out of time."

"Tell me about the girls."

"You're looking for Tiffany Ross, Kayla Twimbly, and Elise Mowrey. No, Moffatt. They're each locked away, with enough food, water, and air to last until July 15 at latest, if they're careful. They _might_ be guarded. I can't vouch for the forbearance of the people looking after them."

Shaw was not about to deal out the Kayla Twimbly card: she actually wanted Kelly to overestimate her own power. "We'll find them. We have leads based on the information we found at your storage space."

"Which storage space?" Kelly smiled, relishing the twitch of doubt that Agent Shaw was unable to conceal. "Those girls may not even be on this continent, so good luck finding them on your own."

Shaw suppressed a sigh. She hated the fuss of dealing with Interpol, and there would be extradition demands... hell. "There's no way you could have pulled off those kidnappings alone, relocated the girls..."

"Who says I did it alone? Michael and I have friends. We've done favors. People _owe_ us." She was proud of this. They'd built a network. They had resources.

"So far we've brought in six of those... people." Shaw spat the word like a curse. "– or taken them down."

"Any idea of how many more you have to go?"

Shaw's sigh bolted out like a cat when you're bringing the groceries in, gone before she could catch it. She opened a new window on the tablet, poised her fingers to type. "Tell me what you have in mind. I'll see what I can do."

Now it was Kelly's turn to twitch. She gave Shaw her list of demands. "Cigarettes - Dromedary Menthol Slim 100s. A hairbrush. Cherry scented lip gloss."

Shaw raised her eyebrows. "That's it?"

"I want Castle to bring me a latte every day. Tall, nonfat, 2 pumps sugar-free vanilla syrup."

"And don't tell me, a bathtub full of red M&Ms."

"DON'T get sarcastic with me, you feckin' eejit," Nieman spat.

"Fair enough. Anything else?"

"No wires. No recording. He can take notes."

"You're a physician. You realize Castle's hand is nearly crippled."

Nieman shrugged. "Pain is a teacher. Any lessons I give him, he'll never forget."

"I see. Anything else?"

"Yeah. I have a script for him to follow. You type fast, take it down. Pay attention because I'm only gonna say this once."

Shaw dutifully typed. It took about five minutes. They went over it, and to Shaw's surprise, Nieman was fairly patient making corrections. "Every time he leaves, his last word has to be 'Always'."

Shaw gave her a quizzical glance. "All right."

"And if you think I'm going to implicate any of my vast cadre of villainous friends and associates," she giggled, "you're feckin' stupid. But you might get the girls if you're lucky."

"That would be most appreciated," said Shaw.

"Now I'm telling you: Send me Richard Castle and, if he behaves himself as I specify, you'll find the girls. Alive or dead depends on how fast you move. Of course, in solitary, they may have gone barking mad already."

* * *

**Day 1:**  
Since Castle's hands, hip, and ankle were still a mess, he used an electric wheelchair. He was so worked up and nervous that he didn't even bother to play with it. This worried Kate. In the Krimby Psychiatric waiting room, she kissed his cheek and ran a gentle hand over his head. The doctors had only shaved off a patch, which made him look and feel even worse once the bandages came off. The day after he woke up, he paid his favorite barber $300 to sign a non-disclosure agreement, visit the hospital, and take off what was left of his hair. Plus give him a decent shave (damn hard to do on another person, impossible for him to do on himself). And a manicure on whatever fingernails he had left. Just a buff, clip, cuticles pushed back. So he didn't look so much like he'd literally crawled through shit just to stay alive.

Since then, he had grown six days' stubble, more or less. "Your hair's growing back," she smiled.

He nodded, dispirited.

"Alexis says your head feels like a pony's nose," she cajoled.

He was quiet. Scowling. Drumming his fingers on the armrests.

She'd already compared him positively to a pirate; she liked the beard. Although at this stage it was a little prickly, it had a nice shape. It would soften in a few days. She decided to attend his anxiety directly. "Babe, you don't have to do this."

"Of course I do."

"Yeah. I know." She put Nieman's latte in the cupholder, and added, "Of course you do. I'll be right here, waiting."

Castle reached up his good hand to cup Beckett's jaw. The fervor of his kiss felt too much like goodbye. "Thanks," he whispered, and they both felt as if he were his last breath before diving into a pool of crocodiles. He glanced at the clock again, and as it ticked straight up on 2 pm, the orderly called him in.

He went through two security check points, and then was let into a locked room, about 8 by 10, with only a heavy white table and two chairs. The walls were painted an unpleasant hue of fleshy pink. The ashtray on the table was harvest gold, a boomerang-shaped melamine blob stained with tobacco and old burns, bolted down on a little plinth so she couldn't throw it at anyone. Someone had likely found it in storage. Had it been in mint condition, it would have been worth $3.99 on Ebay. There were three cigarettes lined up neatly next to it. He knew that one of the walls was paper thin, and the room was bugged. Dr. Patel, an orderly, and perhaps others were on the other side, listening and recording the conversation. It made him feel a little safer, but his heart still thundered in the silent room. He was to give no indication that he knew they were there, but he did have a safe word, and it wasn't 'apples'.

A female orderly let Kelly in, sat her at the table, and chained her hands and feet down.

"I see I've won a round," she grinned. Castle set the latte on the table, loath to come near her. The door locked behind the orderly after she left.

Nieman took a sip that first day and made a face. "Gah. I can't believe she drinks it this sweet. It's like pudding."

Castle said, "It's what you asked for."

"So it is." She looked him up and down with a sort of hunger that made his skin crawl. "You can stand?"

He nodded.

"I'm going to pat you down for wires. Come here." Her smile turned his stomach.

He stood, limped to her, leaning his left hand's weight on the table. He let her pat him down. Let her brush a hand over his ass, his chest, run an exploring, hideously over-stimulating finger up the inside seam of his jeans. He didn't flinch. He kept it businesslike. As he would every day until it was over.

"No wire. We're good." She tilted her head, and as required, he leaned in to kiss her cheek, a bland peck, as between two French politicians. She was wearing cherry-scented lip balm. It made him want to slap her.

Her eyes flickered on his. Her eyes were green, but the wrong green, pale and ringed with blue. "Take a seat. Too bad about the hair."

"Yeah."

She picked up a cigarette and gestured with it. "Light me up."

Rick pulled out his first packet-of-three-matches-per-day.

"Sorry," she smirked. "I know you hate them, but I'll take what comfort I can." She loved knowing that he would leave "their" room every day coated in the scent of her breath. Dromedary Menthol 100s, as she'd specified. She was allowed three a day. His hand shook, oh, so slightly, as he lit the match with a hard flick of his cleanly trimmed thumbnail. He'd learned the trick as a kid, but found it harder left-handed.

She looked the chair over, but didn't find a wire on that either. "Judging by the way your bruises have faded, I'd say it's been twelve days since the crash."

"More or less." It was actually thirteen. And two of the girls were still missing.

She smirked. "I may be a bad woman, but I'm a good doctor. I can read your body like a clock. And it's a feckin' disgrace, what they've done to your nose. I could fix it. Make it perfect."

"Maybe I'll let you if you tell me what I want to know," he said evenly. "You can carve away."

She giggled. "Touché. Shall we begin?"

_"How's my muse?"_ That was part of the script. She was to be his muse. At this point, he had no control over the terms. This is how it was supposed to go:

_"Fine," she'd say. "Any new murders?"_

_"Nothing interesting. Let's concentrate on you and yours."_

And he was expected to smile. He could even make his eyes smile, he was that good. Children learn well from their parents.

He produced his lightweight, smooth-writing $75 ball-point gel pen. She disassembled it, checking for a bug, then put it back together. Nothing recorded. That was the deal. It all had to come through him.

She stopped a moment and frowned at Rick. "Wait. You're right handed."

He nodded. "I can use my left if I have to. It's just slower and messier." Inspired by Inigo Montoya in The Princess Bride, he'd fenced ambidextrously in high school. As an adult, occasionally when his hands got tired, he used the mouse left-handed. It got the job done.

She looked at him skeptically. "You better not fuck up our notes!" She'd already sucked the first cigarette down, almost frantically. She reached for her second, and he dutifully lit it.

She giggled. "I'd forgotten you knew how to do that. Would've expected a James Bond sort of lighter from you."

"Forgotten?" He hadn't. But any detail he could elicit might come in handy.

"Yeah. I worked that movie shoot at Powerscourt Falls with you and Michael. Remember, one of the lads came round with some hash after the third day's shoot, but you were the only one with dry matches. Nerdy Ricky Rodgers with your little plastic pouch."

"The movie shoot," he said. "Never saw it, what did they wind up naming it? Witch of the Waterfall?"

"No. Dark Queen of Palladia. Your own mother had the lead and you never saw it?" She stared at him, aghast. "What kind of son are you, Richard Rodgers?"

"Disgraced, at the time. I think my experiment with hard drugs rather soured Mother on the whole experience." His mother had gotten the lead role, brought him along, and persuaded the director (an up-and-coming unknown) to let Rick play an extra. He briefly wondered if his fencing skills as Tall Soldier With Spear had actually made it to the final cut.

She laughed. "I think it came out in Ireland for a week total. We laughed our heads off."

"It competed with Willow here. Went straight to video."

"Ah." She sighed, a hint of lust. "Val Kilmer in a cage."

He suddenly felt queasy.

She said, "Remember me? I was an extra: Camp Follower With Big Tits Number 3."

He almost laughed. "That was you!" She'd been adorable, average-looking and giggly in her muddy-sexy-peasant costume, with wild brown hair and cleavage down to there. "We called you 'Double Duty Cutie'." It was a low budget production, and she'd worked double duty 'for the exposure', applying fake wounds and dousing them with corn syrup blood.

"Yeah." When dear Martha, the Wicked Queen, mimed mowing the Good Prince's legion down with her Crystal Skull Wand of Power, Ricky had screamed and collapsed in the mud next to Declan, joking between takes while Rosie O'Shaunessy flitted from soldier to soldier, dabbing fake blood and burns all over the fake-fur-and-rust-clad army. She'd straddled Rick, fixing him with blue-green eyes. "Now hold still while I make you look like five miles of bad road," she'd grinned. Dry-humped him just barely through his canvas pants costume. He hadn't minded a bit, and when she stood up, someone made a joke about tent poles.

"Thank you Miss, and may I please have another?" She splashed more blood on them, all the dead soldiers around them laughing uproariously.

"I'll just get another bucket!" And she bounced away to the makeup trailer for a fresh supply of red corn syrup, while his own mother stood on the hill above, waving her staff and raining imaginary, fiery apocalyps on the helpless fallen. Rick genuinely smiled at the memory, then hated himself for it. He placed Rosie's face and confirmed it with his memory of the girl at the drug den. But this was long before she'd carved herself a new identity as Kelly Nieman. Rosie had not yet given herself straight, white teeth, more pronounced cheekbones, nor bobbed her nose, nor shaved her jaw into its current delicate heart point. "You were a makeup artist then. But at the squat you talked about med school. I was admittedly high, but it confused me."

"Not a pro, of course. I did it for Michael as a lark. It was just a weekend and I was an unpaid intern. First time I ever used gelatin and fake blood. They liked me. I was good with the injuries and the dead people."

"So you were. I didn't realize you were already with Dec- with Michael while we were making the movie."

"He got me in with the production company. There's a lot of things you didn't realize," she said. She couldn't believe he didn't ask the most obvious question: Why was Michael in the production? He'd intended to kill Rick first. Then Martha, if things didn't work out.

Rick. So smart, but still so fucking clueless. How would she ever train him? He seemed more cheerful, more at home with her. That wouldn't do. She didn't want him to feel comfortable. She wanted him to earn his way, as he had with Kate.

He had his pen poised. "You ready?"

She took a drag from her smoke and blew it out in an enveloping, sickly, minty cloud. Her tone turned nasty. "Are you?"

She had flipped from warm to cold so quickly. _"I'll speak nice and slowly so you can keep up, and I expect you to read every paragraph back to me. Then at the end, you read back the day's session. Just so that I can be sure it was sinking in."_

He said "There's voice recognition software that can..."

"NO! You have to do it. So that I know you've heard every single word. Taken it to heart. You can't skip over. Can't fast forward. Can't rewind." Another deep drag, calming herself. Exhale. "You have to be here. With me."

He looked trapped, and then he smoothed the expression over. "That's what I agreed to." _Because I had absolutely no idea how horrible it would be._

"I have so much to teach you."

He shuddered internally. She didn't say 'tell'.

She spoke in third person, talking about herself as "Rosie", or "Kelly," and several other names as well, as an author would, reading off the story of her life as if she'd already written it. But she knew she needed a ghost writer. She was only the muse. Richard Castle – her captive ghost. He helped her clarify her thoughts, remember tiny details, list off names, dates, locations...

He'd refreshed his old Gregg shorthand skills. Now, the hard part was endurance; he could only go for about a half-hour before his hand gave out. It had been partially repaired in a couple of surgeries, but they'd had to fuse some bones in the wrist, and it ached almost constantly. She didn't know that he barely wrote anything in that shorthand, that he was able to repeat their conversations almost verbatim because his memory was even better than Michael's.

She'd expected him to struggle, write longhand, and stumble over his notes, while she goaded and corrected him. At first she was disappointed, but teaching him about the methods of her madness was actually more fun when it went fast and smooth. She was surprised to find that, as a ghost writer, Castle was actually beyond her wildest dreams. He asked great questions, listened raptly, wrote with full concentration. And he was such a wonderful audience as well. She'd watch his black pupils expand and contract with emotion; occasionally he'd break out in a sweat, grow pale with shock or red with anger, hide the barest shake of his hands. But as to his expressive control, he was even better than Michael. Mastering himself, obviously thinking he could save the girls by playing it neutral. But genius isn't everything, and she almost felt sorry for him. As if Richard Rodgers could manipulate her. On their very first direct encounter in the Kelly Nieman office, she'd had him eating out of her hand.

_"After Michael's death - and her own arrest - Rosie knew the game was winding down."_

"Don't you mean over?"

She chuckled. _"Not over by half. Winding down. She was going to die in prison. Maybe she'd get shanked by another inmate. But more likely, she'd go through appeal after appeal, be deemed sane. Because from her fourth birthday on, she knew exactly what she was doing. She was sure the men in white coats would deem her as sane as they come. She'd get lethal injection when all was said, and done, and written. But her exploits and ideas would live forever, in the heads of everyone who read them. Inspiring those who came after her. She was a wellspring of true greatness, and someday when Jack the Ripper was forgotten, Rose Caitlin O'Shaunessy's name would continue its trail of blood across the face of a bored, numb world."_

_Rose Caitlin O'Shaunessy – Kelly Nieman – understood loyalty and betrayal. Understood murder. She'd learned it all at her Da's knee, the way another child would learn to bake cookies._

_Her da told her, over and over: "You cannot create loyalty without the fear of loss. People must know what they have to lose. And it's you who have the power to save it, or destroy it. If they work with you, maybe they'll make it out alive, maybe they'll buy safety for the ones they love with their silence, their cooperation. The surrender is the sweetest part. You own them, the way I own you. Some day maybe you'll own me."_

Rick's eyes narrowed, and Rosie glanced over at him, then looked away, telling her story in third person to the wall.

_Her Da was tall, slim, and handsome. Moved deceptively slowly, with large, gentle hands and a kindly bedside manner. Nobody would ever have suspected such a good man. She watched him kill her mother over two days' time, then dismember the body. She was four years old. Watching, she plucked pieces off her doll, one by one. First the head, then the arms. The legs are the hardest. You really need leverage. She'd sat on her mother's torso, gotten blood on her own pink lace tights, and he'd scolded her gently, made her take the tights off and put them in the pile with her mother's bloody clothes. He told her, "You're an ugly little thing, like your Mam. But you're a good daughter. A good girl. You'll take her place."_

"What he did was evil," Rick said quietly.

_"She wanted him all to herself. It was her fault. And with her Mam gone, he told her he loved her. So she didn't care. She belonged to him. What she didn't give up, he took anyway. She learned to like it. She didn't know any different. She thought all daddies taught their daughters like that."_

Rosie looked at Rick sidelong and took up her second cigarette. She caressed it with her lips, her expression wanton. Sometimes a cigarette is more than just a cigarette. "Light me up, Darlin', wouldja?"

Rick's stomach clamped down, his mouth filled with saliva, he wanted to vomit. He lit the second cigarette. The sulphur smell from the match stung his nostrils like a tonic.

She said, "You have a daughter, Ricky. She's a pretty girl. You just love redheads, don't you?" She looked him up and down, twining fingers in the dyed red ends of her hair.

He blew out the match and set it carefully in the plastic ashtray.

"I'm still writing," he said, his mouth dry. "This is not about me."

Rosie nodded. "Yet." She sucked the smoke hard. Rick looked away.

"LOOK AT ME." He said nothing, just watched her, pen poised, waiting while she smoked down half the third cigarette.

Finally she started back up again. _"Her Da said, 'You're a real help, Rosie. When you grow up, you'll have the family business'. She'd helped Da out in the kitchen with her own aul' little knife, wrung pretty pink water out of her own toy kitchen mop. Helped him dispose of her mother's body in a bog off the north country road. And with her little garden spade, she'd dug holes. Every day as she grew, her Da belonged to her a little more, each of them held hostage to the other by the enormity of their deeds..."_

"Which bog?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter now. _A peat-cutter found her mother's head, turned it in hoping it was an archaeological find. Once they realized it was modern, they buried it as a Jane Doe in a potter's field. Da kept the news article. He had a scrapbook." _

"Do you have a scrapbook?"

"Of sorts." Her lips twitched.

"I'd like to see it."

"You can help me caption the mementos, when the time comes..." she winked.

She went on. More details about her childhood. _"Ireland's small, you know. Lots of twisty roads, easy to find the lost places, but you have to be careful... Every few years they moved from town to town. The sainted Dr. O'Shaunessy working for small clinics. Going through the countryside, tending to the poor and the sick. They were always so grateful. He scouted out Traveler women and children, the immigrant girls. Preying on people the Gardai didn't look out for. Getting referrals from priests for troubled girls. He'd take care of their little problems, and while they were out cold," she shrugged. "They never knew the difference."_

She took a long drag from the cigarette. "I'm sure you wonder what happened to him."

"Can you tell me?"

She spoke to the wall again, her voice dreamlike._ "On their last night together, she nodded to herself, tracing a long, red line with her scalpel, as her victim, her father, bound and gagged, writhed beneath the blade. She knew then, for certain. 'You were right, Da. Surrender is the sweetest part. Is it sweet for you?' The gag muffled his screams. She held up a piece of him, his most precious piece. Dangled it in his face and laughed. Michael was there of course, helping her. He always had a funny quip for moments like this. 'Parting is such sweet sorrow.' He loved Shakespeare."_

She looked over at Rick. His eyes were wide and blue and glazed. He stared right at her, looking into the nothing inside her. He could see the nothing. _He could see it._ She felt a thrill. "And do you know what happened then?"

He had that frozen, deer-in-a-headlight look. She smiled, her hand snaked out, and the lit end of her cigarette jammed onto his left index knuckle. The skin sizzled a little, he cried out and pushed his chair back out of her reach. Sat there open-mouthed, horrified, furious.

She repeated, "You know what happened?"

She watched him master himself again. He popped the burnt finger into his mouth a moment. Felt the blister raising. Shook his hand a little to cool it. "Son of a bitch! Was that necessary?"

"You were looking a little bit lost there."

His face was a blank wall, only a muscle pulsing his temples as he ground his teeth. "Tell me. What happened?" He picked up his pen, made the scratch marks, hooks and slashes as she spoke.

She dropped the extinguished cigarette into the ashtray. _"Well, the aul bastard went into shock, and he was dead in five minute, can you believe it? Gone, finally. Gone too soon. Rosie cried then. Rosie cried and cried, and Michael just held her, for hours he did. He just held her. He was so sweet. And when she woke up the next morning, the body was gone, the kitchen was sparkling clean, and there was a red rose in a vase on the table. Her first rose ever."_

Rosie's eyes were tearing. "Isn't that the most romantic feckin' thing you ever heard?"

A knock at the door. "Five minutes."

"Well, isnt it?"

"Romantic? I don't know how to answer that."

Rick read - or rather recited - through the day's dictation. His voice was flat, almost as if he were dreaming. But he had all the words down. The ideas. Kelly nodded. "That's a fine start, Rickyboy."

As if looking for directions to a local park, he asked nicely, "Will you please give me a location for the three girls?"

She giggled and shook her head. "It's only been a day. Are you daft?"

"It's worth asking."

"Sure it is, and it's worth saying no." Kelly offered her cheek to be kissed, as specified in the script. He set down the pad and pocketed the pen.

_"Until tomorrow, then,"_ she said. He was silent. She glared at him sternly.

He'd walked in knowing the script. Knowing from the words she chose that she'd been watching Rick and Kate at work, at home, in bed. But hearing her say those words felt like a fresh stab to the gut. Bile rose in him again, and he swallowed it back. He replied what she'd told him to say. The word in the script:

"_Always_." Stood, leaned over, kissed her offered cheek.

* * *

He moved into the chair and wheeled out, the orderly closing the door quietly behind him, and was met by Kate, her eyes worried and questioning. They exchanged a silent gaze. She wasn't feeling so well for some reason, looked pale. She'd come to support him against the FBI's wishes, and had insinuated – ok, bullshitted - herself in: "I know these killers as well as anyone, and I'm here to support Castle. You can call Captain Gates if you want more authorization." Shaw was off in the field, but Dr. Patel patted the seat next to her. Resources were stretched thin, and she hoped the officer's perspective might help her make sense of the confession.

Kate had listened silently through the interview room's false wall as the session went on. It had indeed been recorded, completely against Rosie's wishes or knowledge. This was not for the purpose of testimony or acquiring warrants – simply for getting law enforcement and forensics into places and information where a warrant wasn't required. Not exactly legal. Something of a gray area.

Rick was already deeply shaken, and he was distressed to find Kate there. She was surprised at his glare. Wordlessly, they hurried down the hallway, showed IDs, signed out, were allowed egress through two guarded gates, out into fresh air. She waited for him to say something. "How did it go?" didn't seem like the best question to ask. His expression was so dark, she finally said, "You were incredible back there."

"You were supposed to stay in the waiting room!" he exploded. He got up out of the chair and limped over to lean against a pole, gasping for breath. "I've changed my mind. I don't want you to have any part of this."

She put a hand out to him. "We're in this together, Rick."

He shook her off, staring at blue sky, green lawns, heard a plane passing overhead. Normal things. "The woman is evil, Kate. I can feel it on me, it's like cancer or something, like I'll have to dig it out of my pores... I don't want this on you."

"Castle. Look at me." He wouldn't. He watched a line of ants devouring a smashed garden snail on the walkway. Kate persisted. "We're strong. We've been through so much, and you're doing something absolutely vital. But this is almost a hostage situation for you, not just the girls. if you can't handle it... that's ok, we'll figure something else out."

"You heard her?"

"Yes, Babe. Every word." Words that had been precious to them, sullied now. Tears started up in her eyes. "She takes pleasure in violating anything she can get her hands on."

"It's what she was taught to do," he said, his stomach clenched in a sick knot.

"Are you defending her?"

"God, no! But look. She's giving us a confession. Juries are gonna have to hear this on both sides of the pond. A judge, and I hope an executioner. And me. But you..." he shook his head. "Please. Let me have... let it be clean between us. You understand?"

"No."

"Stay away from the investigation. Take a sabbatical off the force. At least from homicide. From this..." he shook his head. "Monster."

"Castle, I..."

"I need you. I need you to be just... Just Kate." He looked at her full on, now, the way a man in the desert stares at a mirage and prays for a lake. "You understand me? Just Kate. Please. No guns, no late nights, no murder boards, no fucking psychopaths, no mysteries deeper than a crossword puzzle... Just be safe. Just for a little while."

"I'm needed, Castle. And I wouldn't know what to do with myself."

"I need you," he repeated. "Could you grow flowers? Practice your guitar? Make cookies?" He almost said it, he was so sure: "Concentrate on the baby?" But he didn't.

She thought a long moment, his face searching hers. He took a deep breath. Out in the sunshine, everything looked a little better. They pressed their foreheads together, but he smelled like cigarettes, and she felt a little sick. "I'll think about it."

"For me, Beckett?" Under the fading bruises, he brought his puppydog eyes into play – the funny, exaggerated pout he normally saved for things like _'just five more minutes?'_ and _'one more kiss?'_. She sighed. It was a relief to see that thread of humor.

"It's a lot to ask, Castle." She frowned thoughtfully, her fingers playing with her wedding ring. "I could go back to school."

_Even better._ His eyes went wide and bright, and he smiled, radiantly. "Yeah?" He frowned, suspicious. "Wait. Just like that?"

"That little man from the future did say I'd become a senator, and what I know about constitutional law could fill a toothpick instruction manual."

His question rose into a squeak at the end. "You're basing this decision on _Simon Doyle?_"

She thought about the coffee stain on the letter. She'd never told him. Didn't want to give him fodder – although maybe that was what he needed, a story to spin... Someday she would. Someday. Her lips twitched. "Of course not. I've been thinking about it for a long time... Law school. I'd have to start off with my BA of course, although I may be able to skip some classes through my work history. "

"Really?"

"I'll look into it." Kate was not known for compromising, but the relief on his face, that she'd even consider it, was palpable. Normally she'd have expected him to throw his arms around her, kiss her senseless. That is, if he weren't still nursing his broken wrist and messed-up leg. But she saw him holding back. He didn't even touch her arm.

"What is it?"

"I feel like I've been slimed. Not by you, of course. I like your..."

"Don't call it slime." She nodded and wrinkled her nose. "It's weird... I feel something like that, and I wasn't even in the room. Let's go to the hotel and take a shower, huh?"

He nodded. She held his left hand, all the way back in the unmarked, bullet-proof towncar. He didn't remind her about the burn, didn't flinch away, felt the heat of her skin scorching into him, making him clean again, because love heals everything, right? "Please let it heal everything," he thought, while despairing that it ever could. Later she could kiss it better and give him a dressing. But right now he wanted to hurt a little. Which he knew was kind of sick.

In the car, they donned ball caps and sunglasses, she threw on a Hawaiian shirt and a fanny pack. The clerk, who was just slightly stoned, vaguely noted them: a scarred man in a wheelchair, his leggy but otherwise nondescript assistant, checking into an additional night into the King's Arms Budget Motel (Coffee & Wifi in Room!) under the name "Jon and Jennifer Nowicki." They wanted the same ground-floor room with the handicapped placard on the door. The clerk ignored the unmarked police car watching their room from the sidewalk across from the parking lot. They paid cash. They were quiet. That was fine.

* * *

_This has been so hard to write! It's going to get worse, and it will also get better. Thanks for sticking with the story and for your patience as I fixed and reposted it. I'm never going to write about serial killers again; I don't understand how people bring themselves to do it._


	17. Chapter 17

Ok, this is where it gets a little weird. I went to Powerscourt Gardens in the mid-80s while touring Ireland. I'd cast about in my mind for awhile creating Rick and Michael's backstory with Rosie, and settled on this because I'm vaguely familiar with the area. It's an amazing old estate with the highest waterfall in the country. A great many movies and TV shows have been shot there, including Excalibur and The Tudors. Sinead O'Connor also shot her music video, "Nothing Compares 2U" at that location. The video is gorgeous and I used it to set the tone for some of my writing.

So in course of writing this story, last night I did a little research on the Powerscourt estate, which was remodeled several times over the centuries and finally burned down in the 1970s. Perhaps I read this on a plaque when I visited it, then filed it away in the trash heap that is my unconscious. The German architect who designed the Palladian mansion in the 1700s was named Richard Cassel.

Cassel Anglicized his name to... wait for it... are you still waiting? Ready?

yup.

Richard Castle.

Kind of weird, huh? Am I right? :-D

* * *

**Too Soon Chapter 17- Nothing Compares**

_It's been so lonely without u here  
Like a bird without a song  
Nothing can stop these lonely tears from falling  
Tell me baby where did I go wrong_

I could put my arms around every boy I see  
But they'd only remind me of you  
I went to the doctor and guess what he told me  
Guess what he told me  
He said, "Girl, you better try to have fun no matter what you do."  
But he's a fool

`Cause nothing compares  
Nothing compares 2 u – Prince, Sinéad O'Connor

* * *

**Day 2:**

It was much like the first.

Every day he rolled, and eventually would limp, then walk, into the clean, sterile room with its stained ashtray and three cigarettes.

He handed her the coffee. She offered her cheek for a kiss, and he gave it to her, praying he could hide the revulsion that rose in him and grew worse at each meeting. Every day, she patted him down. She set the terms, doling out information as she saw fit. The rest of it a catlike smirk and silence unless he asked the right question or said the right thing or breathed the right way or drew the right conclusion. Him staring at her, trying to fathom what was going on in a woman who only lit up when she was talking about butchery. She was slowly smoking away at his soul, and it felt as if he was turning into a slab of jerky.

No weekends off. Every day. Because the clock was ticking. He was virtually her prisoner for 50 minutes a day.

_Every. Day. _

* * *

**Day 3: **He didn't ask the right questions. She said nothing aside from "Light me up."

He lit her cigarettes, and she smoked all three. She just smiled, like a perverted Mona Lisa. He really wanted to throw her on the floor and throttle her. He forced himself to be still, no foot tapping, no drumming. No clock ticking. No exit. He had slept badly the previous night and now he felt a bit sleepy. For a moment his eyes closed, and across the table from him sat a little girl, holding a rattlesnake: uncombed deep-brown hair, light-green eyes, cheeks flushed pink, crooked, unkempt teeth. Her clothes and face were splattered with old, drying blood. Her hair, caked with it. "There's no snakes in Ireland," she said. The snake hissed and struck at him, and the child giggled, but her eyes were narrow, mean.

He said, "We're not in Ireland anymore."

Rosie said, "Wake up, Rickyboy. You might have missed something." He started awake, sweating. Her third cigarette was down to the filter. She put it into the ashtray with the others, and the matches.

"What might I miss?"

"Now, that would be telling."

She said nothing else for the rest of the session.

When the 5-minute-warning knock came, she said, "Do you understand what it's like to want to kill someone, even for the most superficial of reasons? Do you see how you could enjoy it?"

He said, "Yes."

"You can go, then."

He left.

* * *

**Day 4: **  
_"How did you and 3XK find one another?"_

"_His given name – from his mother – was Michael Allen McGowran."  
_  
Castle flinched. The parallel twin phenomenon has been well-documented. Separate lives, odd coincidences. Similar interests, similar names, similar choices. Katherine and Caitlin. Alexander and Allen. Writing murders and committing them.

As a boy, Rick's memory of his birth had been nothing but a red blur, shoved to the back with a trillion other blurs, carefully sifted out and buried to let him function in the present. But he had never forgotten his childhood loneliness, the feeling of someone missing. He remembered that fantasy of having a twin that lived, that ran with him and swam with him, had light saber fights and played video games... He let that fantasy twin become Derek Storm: better, bigger, smarter, stronger than he could ever be. Someone with connections, with a father, who made a difference in the world. Someone who knew just what to say to women, what to wear, just what to do when the going got tough. Castle had slowly remade himself into what he thought Derek should be, then found himself hollow inside. And then Beckett... Beckett saved him from that hollow shell, by wanting something more. She might have been afraid of truly living, but she knew how to stare death squarely in the face. Now it was Rick's turn, and he wasn't going to shirk it, but only four days in, he felt like he was dying inside. If he hadn't already been instrumental in saving Kayla... if there weren't two other girls out there in the dark somewhere, scared and alone... he might have run and never looked back.

"_Michael McGowran found me. Found us." Rosie smiled, her expression soft and sentimental. "He was already a killer. His mum – his adoptive mum – she was an addict, going back and forth between heroin and coke. Speed. Whatever she could get. She whored herself, brought men back to their place, when they had one. Sometimes they'd use him as well as her. Together, you know?" _

Rick said, "God, that's sick."

"Yeah." She took a drag off her first cigarette. Her "yeah" was distinctly Irish, taken on a tiny indrawn gasp as she smoked. Rick was taken back to the time he'd spent hanging out in pubs with Rosie and the boy he'd known then as Declan, along with a pile of other badass-looking extras and a couple of B-level movie stars. The shoot had taken them all over Ireland: Powerscourt, Cork, the Ring of Kerry, Gap of Dunloe, Slane Castle, Sandymount Strand at low tide. The real, actual Cliffs of Insanity: Moher.

She dictated: _"When he was twelve, he'd had enough. His mother shot up in the living room. He waited until her dose kicked in, lifted her up on his shoulder, looped her neck and hauled her over a light fixture with his favorite kind of rope. He told me, 'She was small. I was already three inches taller than her. Alls I had to do was kick a chair over and call 911, crying. They fell for it, no question.' We had a good laugh over that."  
_  
Rick just wrote, thinking about how he'd diagnosed his brother's obsession. He'd had it half-right. That must have bothered Michael. A lot.

_"After Michael faked his mother's suicide, he went to the funeral – such as it was, just a couple of friends and her pimp. He saw her in the pine box, and somehow suddenly realized he was all alone in the world, even worse than being with her, because the pimp was still there. She was a pretty little thing, and the mortician had felt sorry for her, laid her out just so with a scarf round her neck to hide the marks. Michael panicked. He tried to crawl in, cuddle her, and they pried him out and put him in hospital for a while. So he got away from the pimp." _

"What was the pimp's name?"

_"I think he went by 'Dirty Dan'. _

"Dirty Dan."

_"Yeah. First thing we did when we came to America - hunted him down like a feral pig. Made it look like a turf war."_

"That was fast."

_"The hunting was fast," _she smiled_. "The killing was slow... where was I? Then he lived in a group foster home for nearly a year."_

"How did that go?"

"_He loved it. They put him back in school. He tested off the charts, they gave him AP classes, he pulled straight As. Didn't even have to work much at it. Just like you, Ricky." _She took a deep drag, blew the smoke at him, seductive as Bette Davis in an old movie. _"He was mostly self-taught, like you. Spent his afternoons at the New York Library, reading and screwing around on computers. Looking for his real mother – for Martha. _

"She had to be better than the one he'd killed."

Kelly arched an eyebrow._ "You'd think, eh? He had clean clothes and regular meals and a television. He'd sneak into the other boys' rooms at night, do things to them. They were almost all on meds of one kind or another, they slept like stones. Daytimes, he'd steal little things, tell lies, turn them against one another just for practice. Of course, they all hated him, but none of them could explain why. He could run circles around them."_

Rick thought back. "I pulled a lot of pranks at school." Why did he want to have commonality with a monster? What was there to understand?

Kelly grinned. "Boyish hijinks. You'd have had great gas together if things were different."

He nodded silently. She blew a smoke ring, something Rick had always found intriguing but never tried to learn for himself.

"_Michael's mum was an illegal and the authorities had a hell of a time finding her family. When he was thirteen, they located his granny, she said she'd take the boy, and a social worker put him on the plane to Dublin. He'd never met any of the family, and there wasn't much. He was heartbroken - tried to slash his wrists with a plastic knife in the bathroom. But it turned out the ol' lady was all right. She was fond of the drink and on the dole, spent most of her time passed out on her bed listening to BBC1. So he was a free agent, came and went as he pleased. And was already a hacker. Since the moment he heard of the Internet, he knew that was his playground, his cash cow. Because he loved gadgets and he loved puzzles. He grew up poor, like you. Knew the power of money. So it was a natural fit. He got access to a computer center through the help of a social worker, and later at Dublin College. He showed so much promise as a programmer. The first couple he killed, he stole into their bank account and made off with 70,000 pounds."_

"Who were they?" __

"Tom and Maggy O'Neil. From Terenure. The neighbors were shocked, they'd seemed like such a nice young couple. Left a two-year-old behind." Rosie shook her head, smirking._ "Saddest thing."_

Rick nodded. "O'N E I L? Is that spelled right?"  
_  
_"Yeah." Sigh. Puff. Blow.

Rick was reminded of Declan again. "So, can I change the subject a little? Declan and Michael really were the same person?"

"Oh, yeah. He was a lot hairier than you are, it was easy to conceal your resemblance."  
_  
_Rick was stabbed again with a guilt-ridden, messy, angry sadness. He'd really liked Declan, right up to the moment the boy's fist impacted with his face.

Rosie looked at Rick appraisingly. "That was a fun night at the squat-house. I didn't know Michael was planning to OD you."

"Really."

"Oh, yeah. After we got you good and wasted he watched us. You and me."

Rick felt bile rise up in his throat. _"What?"_ The image that flew into his mind left him nauseous.

"Yeah. Don't you remember the bitemark on the inside of your thigh?" She watched him closely, smirking. "Ye'r lookin' a little green there, lad."

Rick closed his eyes, not wanting to look at her. He went to run a hand through his hair but it was gone, and his palm scraped across stitches that prickled and burned. He wanted to launch himself across the table and kill her. Back in time and kill both of them. He wished he could find Simon Doyle and wring the secret of time travel out of him. And he chuckled bitterly at his own foolish fancy in the face of such horror.

She said, "If it makes ye feel any better, you were practically out cold and I had to do all the work." She snickered. "Not much came of it."

"That's very compassionate of you," he said drily.

She laughed, long and loud. "Look, Michael was a perv, but he wasn't that kind of a perv. He didn't lay a hand on you, except to kill you."

Rick nodded, trying to conceal the depth of his relief, and could only hope she wasn't lying to manipulate him further. He took a bottle of water from the the side bag of his wheelchair. Couldn't get it open. She silently offered him a hand, and he let her open it for him.

"Won't be slippin' you a Mickey this time around," she grinned.

"I'm ready to write again," he said. "You were telling me about how Michael found you."

She tamped her cigarette butt out. She'd want another in about three minutes. _"Michael was lonely. Livin' in the projects, hoarding his money, buying up computers and setting up a little mission control for himself. Had lots of acquaintances, lots of people who owed him favors. But nobody to really share things with. He started lookin' at patterns, murders around Dublin, then around the larger countryside. As a fanboy, you know? Just to see what was out there. At that time, Da was concentrating on sluts in North Dublin..."_

"Sluts? Just for clarification?"__

"Oh, you know. Whores, or sometimes just bad girls who slept around a bit. But Da always changed it up – different looks, different ages, different MOs. He just liked to take females, kill them and cut them up."

"What did he do with the bodies?"_  
_  
"_First, he'd let me practice. We talked about me becoming a doctor. Even then I was quite the artist, he'd let me sew bits together. And then we'd take them up the coast on little day trips, toss them off the cliffs weighed down with stones and such. Rinse out the cooler in the waves. Take a picnic dinner."_

"Your father was a doctor, right?"__

She nodded. "Pediatrician. He liked children." She giggled, watching his face as he wrote. "Haha, got you. Just kidding. He was a general practitioner. Specialized in gynecology."  
_  
_Rick closed his eyes a second, and she snapped "No goin' to your happy place, Mr. Castle. You stay with me, you hear?"_  
_"Do you know the names of any of those women?"

She rattled off seven names, or at least seven pseudonyms. He got spellings, descriptions, distinguishing features, how and where they'd been disposed of. He wound up having to make little chart as she bounced around, filling in different facts. She'd been young, so much of the detail was lost.

When he was finished, he read it back to her. She corrected him: "No, the first Ina, the tall one, she had the blonde roots. The second Ina was five-three, maybe, and her hair was dark brown. Brandi had a birthmark. On her right tit. It was shaped like a rabbit."

* * *

**Day 5: **

"Yesterday you said Michael found you."

_"So I did. Da hired the whores. For the ones who were just party girls, I helped him lure them someplace discreet." She put on a childish face and voice. "'I can't find my Da, and I'm lost. Will you help me?'" She snickered. "Hearts of gold, those girls."_

"_When did you make your first kill?"_

"_Oh, I must've been thirteen, just after my first period." She tamped her cigarette out. "After that, it just depended on our mood, who made the kill. We always took care to throw the clothes out separately at the the tip or in a public trash can, dumping the body parts someplace else. This was before DNA matching became widely available. That sort of expensive resource was rarely wasted on wayward girls. So one day, I'm about twenty, never even been out on a date of course, though I'd had crushes. This boy comes to the door, he's maybe fifteen. Hands behind his back. Da's not home but I open the door. And he's SO handsome, tall, charming. Says, "Pardon me, are you Rose O'Shaunessy?" He has this cute American accent. _

_And I says, "Who wants to know?" _

_He says, "I think you might have left this behind." And he sticks his foot in the door before I can close it. He's quick," _she paused and stretched, yawned a little, pointing her full breasts at her confessor._ "_Almost as quick as you, Castle."

Rick nodded. "I suppose he might still be alive if he weren't."

Rosie raised her eyebrows. He couldn't tell whether it was regret or admiration. "Yeah." She continued. "_Anyway, he's holding a trash bag, I'm looking at it, and I says, "I have no idea what that is."_

He empties it out on the kitchen floor, and of course it's the bloody clothes from our last session, two days ago, and ugh, the smell! And then he's grinning: "So, can I see her?"

"_I don't know what you're talkin' about." _

"_The body. The girl said her name was Maire. She was lying. It was Saiorce." _

"Sorsha?"

"It's Irish. Means 'freedom'. S-a-i-o-r-c-e."

"Got it."

She continued. _"'Get out or I'll call the police,' I says." _

"_And he laughs and comes in close, looks down at me, and his big brown eyes are so beautiful. 'I've been lookin' for you all my life,' he says. And he's runnin' his fingers through my hair..."_

She fell silent a moment, twisting fingers through her greasy, dyed, strawberry-red locks, so similar to Martha's before it went gray and she started dying it a more intense auburn. Rick saw something like genuine grief cross Rosie's face. '_He shows me his wrist, with the aul pink scars, and then he takes my hand, and kisses the cuts on the inside of my arm, the place where I test the blade."_

Rosie held out her forearm and Rick peered at it. So faint, dozens of short silver-white scars, a calendar of death, written on skin.

"_Michael says 'Nobody hurts us anymore. We stop turning the knife on ourselves. It's you and me now. Always.'" _

She stared at her wrists, lost in memory. Rick sat still, watching her, waiting, for an interminable period. Neither of them had access to a clock or phone. Eventually she said, "How's your finger?"

"Raised a blister. Almost healed up now."

"It'll leave a scar," she said. "Something to remember me by." Her voice was almost sad.

"That was hardly necessary."

She said, "At your last moment before death, you'll be thinkin' of me."

The knock came. "Five minutes."

She was still looking at her wrists. Then her eyes moved slowly to Rick's face, and he saw the beginnings of tears. She said, "What if I made a mistake?"

Good lord. Was she actually having a crisis of conscience? "A mistake?"

"Back at the crash. What if I let the wrong man die?"

He shifted wordlessly into his wheelchair and headed to the door. She leaped up, but her feet were chained. "Don't you walk away from me!" Her screams followed him. "It's you and me now, Rick. _You and me!_ You took him from me and now I'm yours, the way it was always going to happen. I'm stuck with you and you will NEVER be the same. I can already feel you changing..." The orderly came in, and her voice grew shrill, became inarticulate shrieking. Castle felt as if his spine were chalkboard and she was a giant fingernail.

He signed out with the orderly, a big blond jarhead type named Minsky, built like a side of beef. They could both hear her screaming. The orderlies had been filled in on the situation. Minsky shook his head sympathetically. "She's a piece of work. Tomorrow?"

Castle nodded. "Yeah. See ya."

•

Castle went to the Twelfth Precinct on crutches the next morning, even though it hurt. Checked in with Gates. Any intimidation he'd ever felt by her was gone – compared to Rose O'Shaunessy, Victoria Gates was sweet as pie. "Thanks for seeing me, Sir. Are they getting anything?"

She invited him into her office. "Would you care to sit, Mr. Castle?"

He shook his head. "Thanks, I'll stand if you don't mind." He'd already showered and changed twice, but he could still feel Rosie's smoke in his lungs.

Gates sat on the side of her desk. She wouldn't have admitted it in a million years, but she felt oddly intimidated. Castle was a tall man, and she was petite. Despite the crutches and injuries, he was strong, and in this state, he was scary. His rugged features, once softened by the boyish flop of hair, were too craggy with his head shaved and his brow and nose still swollen. The scar on his temple was still red and raw-looking. But worse was his mood. She had never seen him like this. Restless, hard-edged. Anger seething underneath the skin, different from the anger he'd sometimes shown when he'd been on the outs with Beckett. This didn't diminish him or make him petty. It seemed to fuel him.

"I feel like the FBI's dragging their feet."

She had to be diplomatic. "I know they're doing all they can, and you know Jordan Shaw's track record."

He nodded. It had always chafed him and Kate when their reach extended their grasp. It had been easier to work around with Montgomery, who was much better at smoothly manipulating the system (eventually to his own detriment). Castle was stuck with a pang of missing his friend.

She wasn't trying to be hard. "Because we're a homicide division, unfortunately I'm not allowed to do much on this case unless someone has actually wound up dead within my jurisdiction. And this is not the only case on my plate. I've granted Beckett a leave of absence, Ryan and Esposito are working overtime whether I want them to or not, and the threats against this department have put a strain on everyone's resources."

He looked ashamed. "If it weren't for me, this never would have happened."

Gates scoffed. "Seriously? 3XK would have become a serial killer whether or not he met you. Whether or not he discovered you were his brother. I just have to wonder how much more mayhem he'd have committed, had you not been there to thwart him."

Castle sighed. "I wish I could believe that."

"You and Beckett's team have solved over a hundred murders. At least eleven of those were committed by 3XK and his associates. There's no way to know how many you've prevented. So let it go, Mr. Castle. Considering that there's a psychopathic branch in your family tree, you've done all right."

This might not have had the same effect coming from anyone but Victoria Gates, who'd always been one of his worst critics. He turned away to hide the tears in his eyes. Gates went on, her voice softer. "We've been in touch with both the FBI and Interpol. The recordings you've gotten us so far have been invaluable." She checked her notes. "The descriptions of the O'Neils in Terenure match, and they've got hits on four of the seven prostitutes from North Dublin."

Castle was looking at nothing. "That's good. Any word on the other missing girls?"

"No. I'm sorry. And I've heard the recordings, I know you're trying..."

"Trying isn't good enough," he snapped. "She said we don't even know what country they're in, and Long Island is only a four-hour flight from just about everywhere."

Gates sighed, and then smiled bitterly, surprising him. "What I wouldn't give to go in and slap that bitch around."

Castle chuckled miserably. "I appreciate your support. But she doesn't want that from you. She wants it from me."

Gates winced. "Oh, God."

"I'm not... I can't do that." He ran desperate hands over his scalp. "She wants to turn me into _him_."

"No." Gates slipped down off her desk, and took Castle's hands gently in her own small, strong grasp. "No. She wanted to turn him into _you_. She admires you, Mr. Castle. I've seen something like attraction in her transcripts." (She grimaced, having read them and knowing their backstory somewhat). "You may be able to utilize that if you have the stomach for it. She just needs to know you're strong. That you're willing to kill to please her."

Castle glared. "I'm _not._"

Gates let his hands go. Her voice was forceful, as if she were talking to a subordinate, a soldier. They both knew full well that she couldn't order him around; what she was offering was the strength of her faith in him. "You can cut a deal with her. You tell her that if she gives you all three girls, she can have what she wants. You're a creative man. I think you can get her to listen to you without compromising either your sanity or your safety."

"You're sure she doesn't know about Kayla Twimbly?"

"As far as the press knows, Kayla is still missing. She's well-hidden, and we've got a tight lid on Grossmann, too."

"But what about Dr. Nieman's murder victims?"

"She implied they kept trophies. Perhaps what we find will lead us to that and some closure of cold cases. But their other victims are dead. Solving their murders won't bring them back. Make the girls your priority. The murders can take care of themselves for now."

Rick's mouth twitched at the corner. "Who are you, and what have you done with Victoria Gates?"

Gates grinned wolfishly. "Oh, I'm still here. And I miss the man-child I used to be able to push around."

He chuckled. "At this point it's a race to see who breaks first, Nieman or me."

Gates smirked. "I hear tell that Detective is very good with a broom."

Castle shook his head, a little ashamed somehow. "Beckett's swept up enough of my messes."

"I don't think that's how it's all going to play out, Mr. Castle." She smiled. "Something tells me that you'll find a way to come through this in one piece."


	18. Chapter 18

**Too Soon Chapter 18 – Daddy's Gonna Pay or, "This had better work"**  
_You've got a head full of traffic You're a siren's song  
You cry for mama But daddy's right along  
He gives you the keys to a flaming car  
Daddy's with you wherever you are  
Daddy's a comfort He's your best friend  
Daddy'll hold your hand to the end_

_a, a-ha sha-la, a-ha sha-la Daddy's gonna pay for your crashed car - U2_

**June 20**

Rose O'Shaunessy was led into the interview room to find Rick Castle waiting, her Kate Beckett-style latte in hand. There was a mischievous twinkle in his eye. He actually came forward and kissed her cheek without prompting. She knew he was breaking down. Was it her imagination, or were his lips finally lingering on her? "How's my muse today?" he purred. _That voice of his._

She patted him down, taking a little extra time. "I'm all right," she said. She felt a small brick-like shape in his back pocket and froze. "What is that?"

He pulled out a little silver camera, digital and sleek, but not new. "I thought you'd never ask."

"I told you. NO recording devices. I want you to remember every word."

He sat back, out of her reach, his smile teasing. "I brought this for you to watch."

She switched from hostility to a pang of curiosity. "What is it?"

"I made a little home movie." He grinned. "You mind if I sit with you?"

He could see her interest was piqued. He actually picked up his chair and carried it over to sit next to her. He was no longer wearing a sling, just a lightweight plastic mesh cast on his arm, and his biceps bulged. He was strong enough, certainly, although she knew it must hurt his hand to hook it underneath the chair's back, balancing the weight.

Richard Rodgers Castle was sitting next to her. _Willingly_. His thigh, pressed against hers. He was warm and solid and smelled better up close than she could have possibly imagined. He took her hand. "You're gonna love this," he grinned. His facial bruising and swelling had faded away to almost nothing, and even his nose looked good. The attending physician who patched him up had done a much better job than she was willing to admit. Rosie felt a rush of warmth between her legs. She'd watched him more than a few times, in the throes of passion with Kate, with his previous lovers, and alone. Usually she'd watched the videos with Michael. Sometimes she'd gone back and watched them again, by herself. Those images flashed vividly in her mind.

She said, "What kind of home movie?"

The camera was several years old but had a video feature with a tiny screen, maybe 4 by 6 centimeters. He started the video and then let her hold it.

He was recording a selfie, his nose enormous at the center of the screen until he pulled the camera back to arm's length.

_"SO, here I am in the Old Haunt. My bar, with its fascinating history and mysterious basement lair." _The screen was tiny, but she, Michael, and Grossmann had imprisoned Kayla Twimbly there, and she knew it well._ "Let's take a little tour, shall we? I'm already in the basement."_

Rosie started to shake. Rick put an arm around her shoulders, and repeated in her ear: "You are going to love this."

* * *

_In the video, Castle was cursing his bad right arm. He set down the camera on his desk, positioning it to record as he pulled the bookcase back. He retrieved the camera and slipped through the hidden door, camera-first. The screen was barely able to register the dark brick hallway, but when he came to the door of Kayla's prison, he held up a key in his gloved hand. "See what I stole from Grossmann's key chain?" He grinned, and pounded on the door._

_"Kayla, you in there?"_

_"Who is it?" Rosie could hear the young woman's voice through the door._

_"Richard Castle."_

_"Oh, my God, help me! Help me!"_

_Castle's voice said, "Hang on, I hurt my right hand. Slows me down. Stupid key..." He unlocked the door and went inside the dank little prison._

_"Thank God!" the girl cried. "Hurry! Hurry, he'll be back soon..." Kayla was chained to the bed, wearing nothing but a tank top and panties. A short, curvy, pretty young woman, she was bruised and her blonde hair was oily and tangled. For a moment Castle fumbled with the camera, struggling to close and lock the door one-handed, then he moved across the room. He trained the camera on Kayla's dirty, tear-stained face. She stared into it, struggling to comprehend his actions. "What is that for?"_  
_"Oh, just for the record," said Castle's cheerful voice._

_The girl's face was pitiful. "What..." her voice nearly failed her. "What are you doing? You're not going to help me?"_

_"What made you think I would? I can pin your murder on Grossmann." He set the camera to the side, but didn't check the angle. The grainy screen focused on a side cabinet door in the room. Shadows moved and Kelly listened as the girl begged and screamed._

_"Oh, shit. No. Please, don't. NO!"_ Then her voice became muffled, and Rosie recognized the sound of someone being smothered, probably with a pillow.

_Richard Castle's voice, steely and cold, through gritted teeth. "Don't fight it anymore. We're all tired of fighting, aren't we?"_

Rosie got chills. It had been too long. She felt an ache in her arms, the desire to hold someone, hold them down...

_He picked up the camera again. Kayla Twimbly was lying on the bed, still, her eyes half open, her mouth gaping, tongue lolling a little over her lower teeth and lip. The screen was small, but clearly the girl was dead._

_Richard Castle, her killer, turned the camera back to his own face, grinning and sweaty. "And that's with one hand tied behind my back, metaphorically speaking. Happy?"_

* * *

Rose O'Shaunessy looked over at Rick, who was gazing proudly at the screen. She breathed, "You did it. You finally did it." Her eyes spilled with tears. "Oh, Rick. Darlin', I am so proud of you."

"Yeah?" He gazed into Rosie's eyes eagerly. "I spent days thinking everything over, and it suddenly hit me: you're right. I am a killer. I've been holding back on the impulse, trying to get it out with my writing. And it's not enough. It's never been enough."

"Oh, Rick."

"I'm so sorry it took me so long to understand. But now I know." He shook his head. "Thank you. It's like a whole new world to me." He looked darkly at the dead girl's tiny image, then shut the camera off. "I want more."

He took Rosie's cuffed hand and halfway up, met it with his lips. She found herself giggling like a schoolgirl. _Those eyes._

She was barely able to contain her excitement. "Has anyone else seen this?"

"No. Just you and me." He smiled grimly. "And nobody will." He popped the card out of the camera's belly, dropped it on the floor and crushed it with his heel. "I put the key back on Grossmann's ring. He'll find the body this afternoon when he goes down to feed her."

"Grossmann's gonna shit bricks," Rosie mused with a dreamy smile. She stared down at the shattered memory card, then up at Castle, her lips trembling. He got down on the floor to retrieve the bits, and her gaze followed him raptly. He knelt before her, his hands on her knees, and ran them up the outside of her thighs, to her waist. She hissed through her teeth, and felt a surge of desire course through her. With her hands cuffed she could easily have caught him, possibly strangled him with enough of a will. She wondered if it was possible to get him to screw her, here, in her prison, before she killed him. She pushed that thought away. Not yet. She hadn't told the whole story yet.

Rick watched Rosie's face carefully. He was so close to convincing her, he could feel it.

He was so close to falling. She could feel it.

She barely heard his whisper. "Can I kiss you?"

She shook her head. "Soon."

He pouted and stood with effort, then sat and massaged the still-tender tissue on his knee and ankle. "What more do you want? Haven't I proven that I'm yours?"

"You've proven that you know how to kill. You haven't proven anything else yet."

"Then what does it take?"

"Get me out of these cuffs and I'll show you."

"I can't..."

"Of course you can. You don't carry a spare key anymore?" she scoffed.

He rolled his eyes, pulled out his wallet, and produced a handcuff key – a slow process, one-handed. "I doubt this will fit."

"Try it."

The key didn't fit. She sighed. "Oh, well. Maybe tomorrow. You'll figure something out."

"Yes," he said gruffly. "I guess I will."

He moved his chair back across from her, smiled, and lit her cigarette. "Tell me more about the time you and Michael spent in New York."

Rosie stared into his eyes, so warm and blue. She knew it in her heart, as she'd known all along: the man was one in a billion.

* * *

**June 16 (two days earlier)**

Kayla Twimbly sighed and set her book down. She'd been rescued by the 12th Precinct detective team almost two weeks before, and although she was supposedly safe, she didn't have a lot to do. She was bored, restless, and lonely. She missed her friends and her phone. Under guard 24 hours a day in a lower West Side safe-house, she wasn't even permitted to peek out the window, although it wasn't as bad as being locked alone in the dark for days at a time... Her companion on shift, Officer Cindy Hu, smiled over at her, and Kayla tried to conceal her envy. Officer Hu spent a lot of time on Tweeter. Kayla wasn't even allowed to touch a phone, let alone post anything or do any gaming. Too risky.

Hu said, "Karpowski's here." The knock came, and Hu gestured to Kayla: "Wait." She checked her phone, readied her gun, then double-checked the security camera which revealed two women on the porch. She opened the door. Karpowski hustled in, along with a tall brunette who might have been a supermodel.

Hu said, "ID?" and the tall woman flashed an NYPD badge. Each of them was clutching several large shopping bags and totes. Hu locked the door behind them.

"Hi there, Tough Stuff," Karpowski called out.

Kayla hopped off the couch and hurried to her. "Hey, Roselyn. What did you bring?"

"Oh, all kinds of swag," Karpowski beamed, hauling everything to the dining table.

The tall woman introduced herself. "I'm Mr. Castle's fiancee. My name's Kate Beckett."

Kayla said, "Whoa. You're Nikki Heat?"

The woman blushed a little. "Sort of." Kayla didn't give a rat's ass about the Page 6 social scene, but she was a fangirl and expected, somehow, a little more musi-ness from The Muse. She also seemed more shy than Kayla would have imagined Nikki to be. Kayla toned her excitement down. It was good just to have a visitor, let alone one bearing gifts. Kayla was vegan, and Roselyn had brought a pile of fruits, vegetables, nuts, tofu, crackers... Beckett started putting the perishables in the fridge, but kept the packet of Skinny-Weat crackers out. She kept looking at them. She was pretty slim, so Kayla figured she was contemplating a cheat session on her low-carb plan.

"Help yourself to the crackers, they're more than I can eat," Kayla said. She washed an apple, quartered it with a knife on a cutting board, and munched on it hungrily, digging through the second bag. A pile of books, graphic novels, and all the Nikki Heat books plus the latest Derrick Storm. She laughed. "Jeez, Mr. Castle doesn't hold back, does he?"

"Nope," said Karpowski. "He's a sweetie. He feels so bad about what happened to you."  
Kayla nodded, serious. "Yeah. Me too. He's not in trouble, is he?"

Beckett spoke. "No, he's been a victim in this whole operation, too. And he's working with law enforcement to bring in the bad guys."

Officer Hu said, "If you're all settled, I'll just be taking off, then..."

Karpowski nodded. "See ya soon."

"Yeah, hope not," Hu grinned over at Kayla. "Sooner your life gets back to normal, the better."

Kayla flounce girlishly, belying her tomboy appearance. "Normal! Ha!" Kayla had worked part-time in a comic book store and attended the local city college as a multimedia major. She didn't consider herself too normal.

Kate went on: "Castle's daughter is almost your age. He had her pick out some clothes for you. Your mom asked if she could send a few things from your apartment..."

Kayla wrinkled her nose. "I don't think I want anyone going through my apartment any more than they already have," she said. "Especially not my mom. I've got quite a collection of toys." Truth was, trying to fight off her kidnappers, the place had been pretty trashed. No way she'd ever want to move back in.

Beckett checked into the bathroom while Karpowski and Kayla laid out the clothes. They weren't a perfect fit and not exactly her style, but Alexis Castle had kept it simple: shorts, jeans, Ts, basic underthings, flip-flops, and some sneakers. Karpowski had mentioned Kayla was a Buffy fan, and there was a lightweight hoodie with a graphic silkscreened on the back from her favorite show.

Returning from the restroom and grabbing the box of crackers, Beckett smiled warmly. "You should take a closer look at that hoodie."

"HOLY SHIT!" Kayla cried. "SMG autographed it? Crap. I can't wear this!"

Beckett said, "That's between you and the shirt. Alexis told me she got it at a convention last year."

"Man." Kayla munched on her apple. She stood back, then set the apple down on the counter, her fingers pressed hard over her eyes. "This is all so weird."

Karpowski's mood gentled. "How you doin', girl?"

Kayla's amber eyes were bloodshot when she looked up. Roselyn dipped her head a little.

"You want a hug?

"Just... a little one."

"Ok, you just tell me how you want it, Kayla." The young woman stepped to Roselyn and felt the curly-haired detective's arms settle gently around her, patting softly on her back. She laid her head on Karpowski's shoulder. Just briefly, and then the panic set in and she had to back away again.

"Thanks."

Beckett popped a tissue out of the box and handed it to Kayla, who blew her nose. Being confined, even in the gentlest hug, scared the young woman now. She was trying to work her way up to it. She had survived one of the worst possible experiences. She expected herself to get over it. Eventually. Why was the aftermath so damn hard?

Karpowski asked, "You sleep ok last night?"

"No. I kept dreaming about Grossmann. Motherfucker."

"I'm so sorry you're goin' through this." Karpowski paused. "Any result from the exam yet?"

The girl smiled, relieved. "He was clean, and I guess he was shootin' blanks."

Karpowski sighed with gratitude. "So glad to know that."

Kayla looked at the floor a long moment, her face somber. "Any sign of the other girls?"

"No." Beckett hesitated. "Did Grossmann ever mention them?"

"Oh, yeah. He said there were two others, and that we'd all be dead by the 4th of July."

Beckett said, "Did he ever give any indication, at all, of where they might be?"

"I got all these questions before, but I was so wigged out, God knows what I even said. I've been wracking my brain about it. I think one of the girls might be in a different time zone."

"Really. Why?"

The girl closed her eyes, putting herself back into a place she never wanted to see again. Kayla slid down the cabinet door to curl in a ball on the floor, just as Karpowski, Ryan, and Esposito had found her in the dungeon at the Old Haunt, with not even a light bulb in reach to comfort her through long days of isolation. She had been hauled out of her apartment by two masked men and a woman, and after her imprisonment, hadn't seen daylight in a week. She'd been naked, skinny and filthy, barely able to reach a portable chemical camping toilet Grossmann had so thoughtfully provided. She'd been balled up on a sleeping bag, her long, blonde hair matted, her thighs bloodstained. Karpowski had covered her, kept her sheltered until the FBI and ambulance team arrived. Ryan and Esposito had directed Shaw and her team to come in the back way, through the tunnels, so that Grossmann wouldn't see any police activity there in case he showed up to work early. Karpowski had talked to Kayla, soothing her, calling her strong, tough, brave. All true. "I'm amazed you're even able to put a sentence together after what you've been through," she'd said, and she'd held the girl's hand all the way to the hospital, through the rape kit exam, until her mom showed up, weeping hysterically. Kayla did fine until her mom's arms wrapped around her, then she started screaming like a wildcat, flailing in a blackout. She was still trying to come out of it.

Karpowski's heart broke for the girl, the remembered trauma screwing Kayla's pretty face into a knot of horror. "He was on the phone with someone, maybe his third or fourth visit... the fourth time he came in to..." She stopped a moment, pressing her lips together until they went white.

Kate and Roselyn shared a horrified glance and got down on the floor with her. Kate said, "Kayla, it's all right. Either way. Just breathe, and remember you're safe now."

"You don't have to tell us..." Karpowski said.

The girls' eyes were squeezed shut, and she stammered. "Yeah. Yeah, yeah, I _do_. This... okay okay okay he was, was, he was on the phone. He said something, _'Your flight go okay?_ and then he, he listens. And he goes, _'You're lucky, mine's a bitch.'_ And he listens, then he goes, _'Well, you're five hours ahead of the rest of us, and the pubs close at 11, so go get a drink - no. Go get a pint while you can.'_"

Kate said, "Wow. Kayla. You are amazing."

The girl's eyes were still closed, her brows furrowed tightly. She added, "He said, _'If 3XK dies I'll just kill her myself. Don't wanna get caught red-handed.'_ I'm so scared, I think I'm just gonna die anyway."

"Kayla. Hey, Tough Stuff."

Now Kayla wrapped her arms around her head, tucked up tight. "Leave me alone. Don't touch me."

Roselyn got on hands and knees, not too close. "Kayla. It's me. Karpowski. Remember me?"

Kate said softly, "The sun's out. Open your eyes. You can see the sunshine." She sighed. The kid really belonged in a hospital, not a safe house. "Kayla, you know that Grossman came downstairs for two hours every day? He was using his work to conceal what he was doing to you."

The girl twitched. "Fucking asshole."

"That's my girl." Karpowski was encouraged. "Get as mad as you want."

Kate was smiling. "You just gave us the best goddamn lead."

Kayla's eyes opened, and she squinted at them. "What?"

"You might just help us find the other women, Kayla."

The girl brought her hands down. She sat up, and Karpowski got up to pour her a tumbler of water.

Beckett said, "We checked the computer Grossmann used for work. He always logged in between 2 and 4. Offhand, did you hear him moving around before he came in? No, don't close your eyes, you don't have to think too hard about it."

Kayla nodded. "I could hear his feet on the stairs. He'd wait a while. Then he'd, he'd come in."

"Good. Good. So, say he was coming in to see you at 2:30, 3 pm. Whoever he talked to had one of the other girls, right? And they were in another time zone."

Kayla nodded. "Five hours ahead. With a pub."

"We're talking England here. Maybe Ireland or Scotland."

"He took her to another country?"

"Could be. Gives us a start." Kate grinned.

Karpowski added, "You are goddamn amazing, you know that?"

"I guess I am," Kayla sighed. "I don't feel so amazing."

"Look," Karpowski said. "Go take a nice shower with the shampoo Kate brought you. Get out of those crappy scrubs and put some real clothes on."

Kate said, "Meantime I'm gonna call this lead in, see if we can get something moving. Ok?"

They stood, and let Kayla get up on her own, because she really wanted to.

"Seriously, Kate, have some crackers." She tossed the box to Detective Beckett, who caught them deftly.

"Thanks."

Kayla grabbed her bags of new clothes and toiletries. She stopped in the hallway, her expression edging on hope. "Look," she said. "I would do anything to take those bastards down."

Karpowski nodded. "You've made a great start. Now go clean up." Karpowski always told herself it was sheer force of habit that made her speed-dial Captain Gates first, rather than Agent Shaw. It's not like she actually worked for the FBI or anything.

* * *

"Hi." Castle's voice sounded exhausted, flat.

"I have some good news," Kate said. She nibbled on a cracker, trying to hide the crunchy noises. From his end of the signal, it sounded like she was mixing cement.

She heard him perking up. "What is it? Do you want to tell me in person?"

Kate said, "No, that's all right."

"Oh."

"Not that I don't want to see you, it's just..." she hesitated. "I'm not really supposed to tell you details about the case." She was hoping that would pique his interest. She took a bite of cracker that exploded all over her chest in crumbs, and washed it down with a sip of water.

"I... don't tell me anything you shouldn't." He sounded disappointed.

_"Well," _she thought_, "That's different." _"Castle, are you okay?"

"Not really." He sighed. "Look, if you called me to not tell me something, that's fine, but..."

"I just had a quick talk with Kayla. Karpowski let me ride along when she delivered your presents."

He was immediately worried. "Jeez, Kate, are you sure nobody followed you to the safe house?"

Beckett nodded, though he couldn't see her. She was suddenly hit with a deep longing to see him, hold him, kiss the anxiety away. "I watched the rear-view the whole way, and the agent guarding the house is a pretty thorough guy."

He sighed again, this time with relief. "How's Kayla?" He'd been having nightmares about the girls.

Kate hesitated. "The good news, she loved her haul. She's a fan, although I suspect she'll sell the books for their autograph value."

She could hear the bittersweet smile in his voice. Finally, a ray of light. "Ha! That's good to know."

Beckett added, "Castle, she gave us a lead." She repeated what Kayla had said. "So it looks like the other kidnappers may be in Europe."

Castle blew out a long, cleansing breath. "That complicates things no end." He grew quiet a second. "Did she say 'five hours ahead of the rest of us'?"

"I think so. Yes."

"If she's remembering accurately..." he hesitated. "What did Grossmann mean by 'the rest of us'?"

Kate said, "Wow. I don't know, that could be anything from just himself and the people we've arrested, to a whole cadre."

Rick persisted. "And do you know who's with them?"

Kate's smile widened. "The third girl, still missing."

"Yes! So she's..."

"In the Eastern Seaboard time zone!"

"Well, that's only a few hundred thousand square miles. Assuming she hasn't been moved."

Kate's face fell. "Oh, God, Castle, those girls could be anywhere."

"Not just anywhere. The more I talk to Kelly Nieman, the more sure I am she wants me to find them."

_"Why?"_

"I think she wants me to kill them. To prove myself."

Kate had to sit down. All the blood seemed to drain out of her brain. "God."

Karpowski looked over at Beckett in concern. The detective looked like she was going to pass out. Karpowski thought, "I sure am pouring a lot of water for other people lately."

Karpowski brought Beckett a fresh drink, then mimed waving hello at her phone. "Karpowski says hi," Beckett said faintly. "Castle says hi."

Karpowski said, "I'll just... go read something." She grabbed one of Kayla's books and disappeared into the second bedroom.  
Kate sipped water while Castle talked. "Are you going to ask Nieman about it directly?"

He said, "I don't think so. I think I'm going to surprise her."

"Surprise her how?"

As he outlined his plan, Kate's face went from horror to amazement to enthusiasm. "You know what they say in cartoons, Castle?"

He chuckled. "An idea so crazy..."

She finished for him. "...it just might work."

"You know that was actually coined by Zhuge "Sleeping Dragon" Liang in the second century AD when he sat on a fortress wall playing a lute..."

Kate grinned. "Shut up, Castle."

"I love you too, Kate."


	19. Chapter 19

I had a hard time with technical difficulties over the last few weeks, unable to upload new chapters or stories, and all my edits and updates got lost. It was pretty painful, and I want to thank everyone who encouraged me and clamored for more chapters. I hope you'll find it was worth the wait.

**Too Soon Chapter 19: Rick Buys the Farm**

_Aww, no. NOW what do you pack?  
Right-you gotta pack an even SMALLER version of your stuff.  
The fourth version of your house.  
Only the stuff you know you're gonna need.  
Money, keys, comb, wallet, lighter, hanky, pen, smokes, rubber and change.  
Well, only the stuff you HOPE you're gonna need. _  
_George Carlin, 'Stuff'_**  
**

**June 17**

A somewhat travel-worn white van with "Farm 2 U" emblazoned on its panels traveled upstate from New York City. Jackson Hunt was at the wheel, his son Rick in the passenger seat, and Kate had volunteered to sit in the back, alone with her thoughts and queasiness. They all wore hats and sunglasses. Kate's hair was bundled up into a watch cap despite the heat, and on her chin she wore a brown goatee that hid most of her mouth and distorted her delicate jawline. At first glance someone might have mistaken her for a young man, if that someone were either blind or a piece of low-grade facial recognition software.

They didn't talk much; Hunt had a scanning radio in this van as well, and he explained the various kinds of chatter to Rick as they traveled the highway. "That was a Sunni warlord. He says there's a shipment of guns coming in on Sunday, but the delivery conflicts with his daughter's wedding."

"Wow," said Rick. "I thought mine was problematic."

Surprisingly, around 3pm, Kate slumped down for a nap, her head lolling at an awkward angle. Rick glanced back at her and asked his father to pull over. "I'll sit in back with her. You know the way?"

Hunt nodded. "I'll get us there." He added more quietly, "She okay?"

Rick shrugged. "I hope so." He was worried. She'd seemed depressed over the last few days, or at least preoccupied. They'd both been through a lot, and their ordeal wasn't over.

As Rick transferred to the back seat, Esposito and Ryan pulled in behind them on the gravel turnout. Javi jumped out and ran up to the van. He and Ryan were wearing their 1970s hairdos and big aviator sunglasses, decked out in various shades of denim, olive, and black. "Everything okay?"

Rick motioned for quiet, and Esposito glanced at Kate with a grin as Rick silently settled her against his shoulder. The detective closed the door with as little sound as possible, and in a moment the two vehicles pulled back onto the interstate, driving through New York suburbs that abruptly gave way to countryside. Kate would have recognized this route had she been awake. Rick was glad they weren't blunting the surprise.

Outside Middletown, they pulled onto a side road, then passed a series of hand-painted plywood signs.

_"**Blueberry Hill Farm  
Since 1955  
**Oldest Organic Cooperative_  
_In Orange County, NY"_

_"Pick Your Own_  
_Berries 'N' Cherries!"_

_"Corn on the Cob!"_

_"Petting Zoo!"_

_"Christmas Trees!"_

_"Local Honey!"_

_"Pumpkin Patch!"_

Hunt grinned. "No Burma-Shave?"

"What's Burma-Shave?"

"Do I have a book for you..." Hunt said. "Ever heard of Gene Shepherd?"

"The Christmas Story writer?"

"Yeah..."

They turned left at a gravel road and progressed slowly between cherry, almond and apple orchards, and fields of baby pumpkin and squash vines, half-grown corn stalks, strawberries and alfalfa, for about a kilometer. They passed a gaily-painted farm stand that had already closed up for the day, through a garden patch bursting tomatoes, beans and cucumbers. The main building was a big old white Queen Anne farmhouse with a wraparound porch and green wooden shutters. There was a matching cottage made from a converted carriage house, and a smaller cottage, several sheds, an old red barn, a big, new red barn with a complicated hex sign painted on the side, a smaller metal barn, a state-of-the-art greenhouse, chicken coops, pens for livestock and the petting zoo, a stable, a pond... It looked like a picture postcard, or a six-year-old's idea of heaven. Ok, both. Just shabby enough not to qualify for a Thomas Kincaid print.

Ryan turned to Esposito. "This the place? Looks like Field of Dreams."

"Yup. If you build it they will come."

"No shit." They climbed out of the car, stretching and breathing sweet air tinged with just the faintest hint of barnyard manure. A tall, blondish man came out of the house, accompanied by a couple of wagging mutts who each barked once then shut up on his command.

Rick patted Kate's hand. "We're here." She was out for the count. He smiled. "Beckett. Wake up."

Kate's voice was almost childlike. "I have to pee." She came around slowly, then looked around, trying to orient herself. Jackson Hunt had climbed out of the car and was petting the larger dog, some kind of gray pibble mix that looked like a coiled steel spring, ears laid back, its tail wagging joyously against the grass. The other dog was lying on its back in the petunia bed, Ryan rubbing its tummy with one hand while trying to keep his hippie wig straight with the other.

Kate yawned, then their location caught her attention. "Are we buying a Christmas tree?"

"Not exactly," Castle said. He was grinning from ear to ear.

She climbed out of the van, followed by Castle, and said, "We've been here before. Hey, I remember you. You're Matt, right?" Matt had helped them find their Christmas trees the two holidays they'd been officially together: a big one for the loft's great room, and a tiny one for Alexis' room. In 2013 Castle had insisted on also getting a little one for Kate's apartment, so it would smell like Christmas whenever she stopped in, which wasn't so often by that time.

Matt was about Rick's age, with a sharp profile and broad smile. He wore overalls and at first glance seemed like a typical farmer, but Kate noticed he wore an adapted shoulder holster under his overalls, probably for a .38. He shook hands all around, Castle last.

"Glad you all made it up in one piece," he smiled. "Any trouble, gentlemen?" His friendly glance sparked on Beckett's goatee.

She was still sort of groggy from her nap and had forgotten she was disguised as a male. She smiled at Matt, then blinked around at the farm in the golden light of summer solstice afternoon. It looked completely different from winter, when it had been covered in snow, the orchards and maple trees stark and gray.

"No, no trouble," said Hunt. And then to Rick, "So, you want to show us your little bunker?"

"Bunker?" Kate wrinkled her brow.

"Not exactly." Castle looked at Matt anxiously. "So you've checked it over thoroughly."

Matt spread large hands in a half-shrug. "Nobody's touched it."

"Good. We'll have these guys check it out, just in case." Kate found Castle's left arm, solid and strong, around her waist. It was wonderful. The scabs had sloughed off, leaving fresh pink skin that puckered a bit at the edges, but no longer hurt. She caressed the back of his forearm without evening thinking about it.

Kate said, "Touched what? Why are we here?" Honestly, in her post-nap fog, she didn't much care. The farm was a beautiful place and she hadn't been out of the city since Rick's crash.

Castle said, "We didn't just buy the trees."

"Wait. What?"

Matt chuckled. "He bought the farm."

_"When?" _She found herself irritated. Why hadn't he told her? He could be so impulsive...

Castle looked around at the surrounding farmland and low hills, spreading up into conifers. "About ten years ago? Twelve. It's in the prenup. Page 15 of the holdings list. 500 acres agricultural land, upstate New York. Mostly undeveloped. "

"I didn't even read the prenup. I'm not marrying you for your stuff."

"I didn't think you would, Kate. I was holding out because I wanted..."

Esposito finished for him "...to hide his porn stash."

This from Hunt, Beckett, Ryan, and Matt:_ "What?" _

Castle laughed. "You know. 'If I die, get rid of my porn stash'. Espo and I settled that a couple years ago." They fistbumped.

Matt said, "I thought that was in our contract somewhere, but," he gestured to Esposito, "Go to town on it." He turned to Rick. "Oh, wait, you're not dead yet."

Ryan said to Esposito, "You never offered to destroy my porn stash."

"You never asked, bro. You don't even need to ask."

Ryan nodded, mollified. "True." They fist-bumped too, then snapped their fingers twice and popped elbows.

Matt just smirked at them. "Stylish."

Esposito shoved his chin out and strutted a little. "You know it."

They came to the barn, and Castle keyed in a combination on the big double door. It rolled open slowly, and Kate felt a faint whoosh of air, cooler than the warm, humid afternoon. She wanted to go inside right away and get out of the heat. Hunt beamed at his son, impressed. "Climate controlled?"

"Archival."

Hunt, Ryan, and Esposito went in first, Hunt switching on the interior lights. They were armed, and they fanned out, exploring through stacks of crates, up stairs, into side rooms, focusing on the task at hand.

Ryan sounded disappointed. "I don't see any porn..."

Rick held Kate back. "If there's anyone or anything in there I don't know about... I don't want you to see it," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"If... well, 3XK left Kayla in the basement at the Old Haunt, it's possible he might have hidden one of the girls here, as well."

Kate's eyes went wide. "Why wasn't I in the loop about this?"

"Because it's probably nothing. Gates knows we're here and that we're out of jurisdiction. This is officially a fun excursion to buy strawberries and blow off some steam, but she'll bring in the FBI if we raise a flag. Now, Matt hasn't seen anything unusual, and I trust him," he glanced at Matt, who doffed his cap and bowed with a grin, "But... I want you to be safe."

Kate scowled at him. "Castle, don't be ridiculous."

Castle said, "Hey, Matt, would it be possible for you to bring out some lemonade or something?"

Matt nodded. "Cherry lemonade ok?"

Kate suddenly remembered that she needed to pee. And her mouth was as dry as sandpaper. And she was hungry. She felt so... odd.

She followed Matt. "Ok if I use your facilities? We were on the road forever." In truth it had been about an hour, with barely any traffic. But she wasn't feeling too well.

"Sure," he pointed to a door on the side of the farm stand building, which was marked with a moon. "Just make sure it's latched when you leave. Sometimes the raccoons break in and wash their food in the toilet."

"Right." Kate used the restroom (which was surprisingly nice, considering the raccoon warning) and laughed at her own reflection, having forgotten that she was still wearing a beard. When she stepped out, Castle was there waiting for her, holding a tall plastic cup of cherry lemonade.

"Easy ice," he said. "No brainfreeze."

"Thanks." She took a long quaff, then pointed off toward the barn. "Seriously, Castle. What's with the bunker?"

He hesitated, gazing anxiously at the open doorway. Ryan appeared and waved an arm. "All clear. This is amazing!"

"Come and see my dowry," he grinned. He took her arm and led her back to the barn at a leisurely pace, Kate staring at him as if he were from another planet.

"Dowry?"

He hesitated. Was he embarrassed? "You know that scene in Silence of the Lambs where Clarice is going through the killer's storage unit and it's filthy and crammed with disgusting things, and it's dark, and the music wells up and you just know something horrible is going to happen?"

Kate stopped and nodded, a creeping dread overtaking her. "Yeah. The head."

Castle whispered, "I've never seen the head."

Baffled, Kate said, "Okaaaay."

"I close my eyes. I've seen the movie three times, and I just can't look. It's probably not even that bad..."

"Actually, it is kind of awful." Kate stopped and looked up at him. "Really? But you've seen so many dead people. You love zombie movies, for God's sake."

Rick shrugged, and in her mind, he suddenly looked like a little boy with a bad buzz cut. Except he didn't have a skinny neck and great big ears like so many little boys do. "I don't know. It just gets me. So anyway, after I saw the movie I decided I wanted to store my stuff someplace really nice where I don't have to pile it up willy-nilly and wig out about spiders."

Kate smiled appreciatively about that, then shuddered, thinking about the black widows in the bat tunnel. None of them had bitten her but... she knew they were still there. Waiting.

They stepped inside, and as Kate's eyes adjusted to the softer artificial light, they grew big as saucers. "Oh, my God. Castle, it's... just incredible. All this just for storage?"

"It's climate controlled, too, and it's been swept for bugs. Of every kind."

"I was wondering how you keep the loft so nice. I feel like every time I turn around, you're buying something." She was turning around now, surveying the building's interior with a look of delighted wonder.

"Oh, I buy a lot of things. But I get rid of stuff, too. I'm no hoarder. I'm more of a …" he paused at the doorway. He punched a button and closed the door behind them.

She was looking at a literal wall of action figures and toys, alphabetized by theme. "Collector," she said, silently thanking the Gods there was no My Little Pony amongst them.

"More like curator."

Esposito had found Rick's jukebox and chose a series of songs. He started out with _"Low Rider"_. The next song in the queue was _"Dancing in the Streets"_ then, just to bug everyone, _"Feelings"_.

Ryan grinned over at Castle from a red-vinyl-and-chrome dinette set, and saluted him with a Creamsicle he'd filched from the deep freezer. "You have all the things, man."

First and foremost, smack in the middle of the 4000 square foot, two-story barn, loomed a five-meter-long, bird-like space ship made out of Legos. Kate breathed, "Oh, she's a beauty. Do the lights work?"

"Lights? Haha!" Castle picked up a remote, hit a button. Not just the running lights, but the little engine turned, emitting a yellow glow out the back. Kate clasped her hands in delight.

"Not the Nebula Nine, but she's still pretty cool, Castle."

Jackson said, "That's pretty awesome, kid."

"I know, right?"

There was a small antique fire engine, in perfect condition. There was a cream-colored Stutz bearcat and a tiny little Fiat (Kate wondered if there was even room for Rick to sit in it).

"Castle, is that a Tesla coil?" She pointed at a hulking shape in one corner.

"Yeah, isn't it great? I built it from a kit. Fried my eyebrows off the first time I plugged it in," he giggled.

There were crates, all carefully marked and labeled as to contents and year, stacked neatly on steel-wire shelves, rather than atop one another. She read aloud as they moved through the stacks.

_ "Christmas decorations 1998"_

_ "Antique cameras to 1950"_

_ "Vintage cameras 1951-2010"_

_ "Camping gear" _(four crates and a duffel)

_ "Drag supplies..." "**Drag supplies**?" _She arched an eyebrow at him.

He blushed, "It's useful sometimes," and tugged gently at her beard. "Remember Claire Sainte Victoire?"

"I see your point," she grinned, then looked at him skeptically. "But we should talk about this further..."

"Nothing more to say," he blushed a deeper red.

_ "Cosplay, 1 of 33: Stormtrooper armor"_

_ "Halloween 2011" _

_ "Meredith's stuff she never comes back for..."_

_ "Remainder Castle books"_ Here Rick shrugged sadly. "Mostly '_Hell Hath No Fury_'."

_ "Comics, Marvel, #1 of 23"_

_ "Comics, DC, #1 of 14"_

_ "Roof Furnishings Summer 2003 Gatsby Party"_

_ "Board Games"_

_ "Childhood Christmas Decorations"_

_ "Skiing Stuff" _

_ "Alexis Clothes 1994-1999"_

_ "Porn Videos. Do NOT OPEN"_

Kate grinned. "I dunno, any pirate stuff in there?"

"Pirate stuff?" he squeaked. "No, that's in the "Pirate Stuff" crates. He gestured: three crates of pirate stuff! He whispered into Beckett's ear, "If I have any swashbuckling pirate porn with flashing swords, hot wenches and lustful mermaids... I won't divulge that information without being forced to walk the plank." A slow smile crept across his face, and Beckett blushed. She had not yet told him much about that thing she had about pirates. She wondered if she could get him to dress up as Hook for Halloween... and if so, if she'd actually let him come out of the bedroom for the duration of the party.

There was a partially-restored carousel, a green-screen setup, a door marked "Dark Room, Knock before Entering" and an enclosure splattered with airbrush paint.

Castle paused at a marble statue of a weeping angel. "Funny, I don't remember buying that..." He shrugged and continued the tour.

There was a blue English police box from the 1960s, but the door was stuck so they couldn't see inside. There was an immense red enamel tool box and a welding setup next to a workbench. Hanging from one wall was a huge clock face that might have been from a movie he'd loved as a kid. Richard Castle had a huge dragon puppet hanging from the ceiling, a rusted Civil War cannon and small pile of cannon balls, a drum set, a tuba, and a unicycle.

"Can you actually ride it?"

"Sure, once my leg heals up," he grinned. He had a giant clockwork tiger that could actually walk in a slow arthritic shuffle. It also roared and purred. He had a taxidermied pangolin; a piece of jet engine, a rattan Morticia Addams chair; about 30 red Chinese lanterns with gold tassels, and a paper-maché statue of Ganesh the Hindu elephant-headed god of removed obstacles. He had a big-breasted ship's figurehead that looked like Bernadette Peters, a Bally Fireball pinball machine, a pair of stilts, and a huge wooden Maori mask with conch seashells for eyes. There was a lovely Japanese screen inlaid with mother of pearl geishas and butterflies. He had a wooden crate with _"Ark of Covenant Do Not Open"_ stenciled on it. It actually had no top, and contained an immense collection of antique doorknobs and keys, plus something jutted out of it that might have been a parrot cage.

He even had a box marked "Halloween, general. Fake Body Parts in Jars. Remain calm."

The entire upstairs mezzanine was comprised of shelves, and those shelves held thousands of books. "How many?" Kate breathed.

"They're cataloged. 3,520. Some of them are pretty rare."

Jackson was sitting in the Bearcat, his hands on the steering wheel, smiling. "You have any weapons other than the cannon, Mr. Castle?"

Rick shook his head. "All back at the loft. They're not really my thing, except for Vera, and she's just a prop." He gestured at a huge, futuristic grey metal rifle, hung on a wall rack along with a broom, a 5-foot-long Claymore sword, and a bagpipe.

Jackson shook his head in mock disgust, and scoffed. "Ray guns..." He also noticed there was a large axe mounted on a bracket by the door. The axe had a label: _"In Case of Zombies or Vengeful Christmas Trees, Break Glass." 'Break Glass' was lined out: 'Note, glass is already broken'."_ He sighed, thinking, _"My offspring is a complete goofball."_ But he cast a proud glance at his son. Rick might have killed in self-defense, and he had a wide streak of lunacy, but he was no psychopath.

Favoring his sore ankle, Rick slowly led Kate up the steel stairs to the mezzanine. She surveyed the books, some of them very old, some of them very large, almost all of them behind glass drop-down doors. She breathed the faint dusty-vanilla-leather scent of wisdom and adventure. She sneezed. "Man, my nose has been so stuffy since the wedding."

Rick said, "Maybe it was the bat-shit." He'd been extraordinarily lucky not to get a lung infection. Bat caves have some pretty scary microbes, no matter how cute the bats are. The paramedics had dosed him up with antibiotics the minute they hooked him to the bag because of his hand. He'd had a little digestive trouble from that, but nothing that yogurt couldn't cure.

They poked around together for a while, occasionally murmuring over a treasure. Kate said, "How often do you come here?"

"Usually when you're doing paperwork, if I'm not writing or if I'm feeling uninspired. Always something to get the gears working again."

"This explains the farmer's market veggies on odd days of the week."

He nodded. "It's almost like you're a detective or something."

Rick was gazing with love at a box of True Detective magazines, each one wrapped in its individual plastic bag.

Kate stopped at a box marked, "Alexis, baby stuff."

She looked at Rick curiously. "What's in there?

"Mostly a huge amount of plastic that I should probably toss out due to off-gassing and materials fatigue." He opened it up. There was a wooden duck on a long handle that had rubber feet on a wheel. He pushed it along, its feet slapping on the mezzanine's finished plywood floor, and every four steps or so, the toy peeped raspily, like an adolescent duck that hadn't found its quack yet. For some reason Kate found it hilarious, and her laughter rang to the ceiling joists.

"It's a... duck on a stick!" she hooted. Rick drove the duck around her, the tiny feet flapping as she turned, giggling. Ryan and Esposito, who had been poking through the baseball memorabilia and the vintage girlie magazines respectively, looked up and grinned then went back to their snooping. Jackson had exhausted his interest in the Bearcat and moved on to the pinball machine. Its ding-and-ping nicely complemented the jukebox. 'Feelinggggs... whoa whoa woe feeeellinnnngsss.'

Jackson said, "I shot a jukebox in Poughkeepsie just for playing that crap."

Esposito grinned evilly at him. "Well, then, choose your own damn song." Neither he nor Ryan had much idea who Jackson Hunt was, but Castle seemed to trust him. So he was one of Castle's guys.

Next Rick pulled out a handmade baby quilt in shades of blue. "My grandmother made this for me, but she and Mother weren't on speaking terms until I was about five, so I never used it. When she died it was still in with her things, and Mother saved it for Alexis."

Kate reached out for it and looked it over. It was so orderly, with dozens of little half-square triangles. The color theme was predominantly blue and white, patterned with stereotypical things like trains, planes, cowboys, rocket ships, pirates. The back had been hand-quilted with tiny hand stitches in swirls and stars. "It must have taken her months." Rick nodded. She smiled down at it, smoothing it over her arm. She felt like he was waiting for her to say something.

"So now, " he smiled, with a grand gesture at his stash of awesomeness, "My great and terrible secret has been revealed."

He looked at her expectantly, as if he was waiting for her to tell him something, and that something wasn't _"Wow, this is so cool."_ Even though it was, indeed, incredibly cool.

He tilted his head, his expression sort of pleading. Serious.

Oh. So, he was on to her.

"Castle," she began quietly. Her voice was a ragged little shudder. "I need to tell you something."

He leaned his right elbow against the mezzanine railing, then winced and took his weight off it again. "You know you can tell me anything."

She nodded. "I, um. I think I might be sick."

He smiled in tender concern, then pulled her away from the railing, guiding her to sit in a big leather-upholstered reading chair decorated like a Western saddle, embossed with swirls and flowers. It had cattle horns for feet. "Do you need some crackers?"

She was puzzled. "What do you mean?"

He paused, his mouth opening and closing. "What do _you_ mean?"

She shook her head. "I've got an appointment to see the doctor. Something's wrong."

He sat on the chair's arm and pulled her close, saying nothing, but she could feel his heart hammering in his chest. She turned to lean her head against his ribs. "I didn't want to worry you."

"Oh, Kate. Kate, no. Never worry about worrying me," he whispered. He cupped his left hand under her chin, and tugged gently at her fake goatee.

"That thing's really on there," she said.

"You'll need baby oil to remove the adhesive," he smiled faintly and half-glanced around. "Should be a barrel of it around here somewhere. Now what makes you think you're sick?"

Down on the jukebox, "_Feelings"_ switched over to "_Fortunate Son"_, followed a few minutes later by Johnny Cash's _"Folsom Prison Blues"._

"I've been so dizzy lately, and... weirdly tired. From my bones, I am just _so_ tired, like I can't sleep enough. I almost got carsick on the way here, then I just fell asleep."

"Anything else?" He was trying not to look amused.

"I was hoping it was just stress. But I'm wondering if I have … if I might have Type 2 diabetes. My mouth is dry all the time, I've been craving sweets more than usual, and I have to pee every five minutes."

He took the quilt from her and wrapped it across her shoulders. It was only a baby quilt, but she was pretty narrow. He said, "I'm wondering if your birth control shot didn't wear off a little earlier than the doctor expected."

Kate's eyes went wide. Of course that's one of those worries that nags constantly at the back of every fertile woman's mind, but... "That can't be right. I got the booster in... She pulled out her phone and looked through her calendar. "Uh... wait. I had a reminder to get one in March..."

Castle's eyes crinkled with a smile as she paged through the calendar on her phone. She ran a search. "I _thought_ I put a reminder in. Didn't I get one before we went to..." she paused, horrified. "Oh, my God. The shot probably wore off three months ago. That explains..."

Her hazel eyes were huge, and spilling tears. "Oh, Castle, I'm so sorry." She looked up from her calendar. "This... it really couldn't have come at a worse time."

He pulled her out of the chair seat, swung her around so she stood between his legs, held her close, rocking her, but he was the one shaking now. "There's no wrong time for us."

"So you're ok with this?" Her voice was small against his shoulder. "Everything's been so hard for you, it doesn't seem fair..."

He was quiet for a long moment. "I thought you knew," he choked back a sob. "I thought you were trying to hide it from me."

"Why wouldn't I tell you?"

"Because we've talked about it in the abstract a few times, but that's before you knew there were psychopaths in my gene pool."

She backed away a little, scrutinizing him, and gritted, "You think I'd end our pregnancy without even telling you?" She was offended. He was sorry. But he was also glad that she was offended, because he was so glad to be wrong.

"Meredith almost did. I still have nightmares about it. And you haven't always been... you know. You're not an open book sometimes."

"Oh, Babe..." She held him tightly. "Well, I'm not Meredith."

"You would have been completely within your rights..."

"Rick." She took his face between her hands. "This is you and me."

His voice shook. "And baby?"

She smiled and splayed a hand across her abdomen, then patted it. "Makes three."

They kissed, and kissed again, and he slid his bottom back into the huge horn-and-leather chair, pulling her down into his lap with a squeal and a giggle. "I've never kissed anyone with a beard before," he grinned. "Although there was that one girl I met at the circus..."

"I don't wanna know," she chuckled. She laid her head on his shoulder again. It was just so damn... restful there. "Why did we come here? So you could show me baby blankets and tell me we're pregnant?"

"No, I was just guessing. We still don't know for sure. And if you're not pregnant, if you're sick– we'll deal with it together. Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay." They cuddled in silence for a few precious minutes longer. He pulled her cap off, and her hair tumbled down from a twist. He stroked it and smoothed it between his fingers. "I was really worried about the possibility of a kidnapped girl being here, but I guess Tyson and Nieman didn't find everything about me after all, including the farm. I've hidden some of my possessions in shadow corporations, just like my brother did."

She stiffened a little. "Really?"

"Yeah, only my lawyer knows where they are. So if something happens to me, Kate, and you need to run, to protect our family – he'll lay that out for you. There's a stash of money in an offshore account, there's money sandwiched into the upholstery on our head board, and there's also cash here."

"Is it in the banana stand?" she joked.

"Nope. In the carousel. The squirrel has $5,000 in cash hidden beneath its saddle."

"You're a nut."

"No. I am a squirrel. And I have many attractive and useful nuts."

"I like your nuts," she grinned.

"Remind me to test your devotion to those nuts when we get home." He patted her bottom and raised her up to straddle his lap. He whispered, "Sometimes pregnant women get extremely horny. Is that your experience?"

Her face colored. "I didn't want to be too demanding, but..."

He kissed her again then rubbed his own chin. "You're gonna give me stubble rash."

* * *

They loaded up the van with a few things necessary for Rick's project: a green screen; a theatrical makeup kit; a small, silver-cased digital camera with a video card. He also grabbed a couple of old boxes of his childhood school records, an old VCR, and a couple of VHS cassette tapes. And they added something for Kate's hypothetical project: a box marked "Pregnancy books and baby gear." And an over-sized rocker-glider and ottoman that Rick had used for bottle-feeding Alexis.

Responding to sidelong glances from Esposito and Ryan, he said, "Don't jump to any conclusions. We want to get it refurbished just in case. My guy has a three-month lead time."

"You better not be holding out on us," Ryan bristled.

"You'll be among the first to know," Kate reassured him. She glanced over at Esposito and Hunt. "All three of you. But we don't even know yet."

They finished loading at about 6:30 to find delectable food smells luring them in from the farmhouse kitchen. Matt invited them for dinner: grilled chicken, salad, smashed potatoes with fresh herb butter on the side, and fresh cherry pie. Kate had to talk herself out of eating seconds; she didn't want to get sick on the way home in the car.

Kate looked around the kitchen, which was painted in a sunny yellow. The walls were mostly taken up with warm cherry cabinetry, but the open areas were hung with children's paintings of fruits and vegetables, nicely framed. "This place is so... homey!"

Matt smiled, his crystal-blue eyes twinkling. "Thanks. That's my wife's touch."

Kate was hesitant to ask. "Do you live here alone now?"

He shook his head. "No, my mom, wife and daughters are down at Disney World." He pulled out his phone and showed Rick a snap of his gorgeous, curly-haired wife, who looked Afro-Cuban, and their two little girls with their mops of beige curls.

"They get prettier every year," Rick smiled.

Matt continued. "Her folks live in Orlando. When I heard about Rick's accident I decided things sounded weird enough that they should get out of Dodge for a while."

It occurred to Ryan that most farmers can barely afford their own shoes, let alone trips to Disney World. He was puzzling it out and finally came up with, "Have you lived here all your life?"

"Most of it," Matt said. "I did a tour in Iraq before my dad died. Came back home to help my folks run the farm. Mostly into the ground," he shrugged sheepishly. He and Esposito exchanged a glance; they were already acquainted with one another from Esposito's investigation of Rick's storage place, and had sized one another up as good people.

Rick said, "I came here a few times for 'farm camp' when I was a kid, so Matt and I became friends. Later on I brought Alexis up for blueberries, and then cut-your-own Christmas trees. Matt and I got to talking after his discharge."

"My folks were having trouble holding on to the farm, selling off pieces of it. They'd been trying to work with the Agricultural Land Trustees but the process was so slow, and we were starting to get pesticide runoff from our upstream neighbors' lawns." His face wrinkled in distaste.

Castle said, "I love this farm, and I always needed a secret Place For My Stuff."

"So this is your bat-cave," said Esposito.

Rick made a face. "I think I've completely crossed the concept of 'bat-cave' off my bucket list." He chuckled uneasily and Kate took his hand.

Matt cocked an eyebrow at him.

Rick said, "Long story." He told part of it. He left out the bit with the demon. 

* * *

After dinner and coffee (Kate just had water, engendering an amused glance from Ryan), Matt brought them out to the corral with a basket of kitchen scraps for the animals. The chickens were already cooped up for the night. There were two horses, a donkey, a couple of pot-bellied pigs, four freakishly cute goats, and a llama. Rick whistled, and the taller horse, an elderly Appaloosa, approached them. He gleamed like a pearl in the twilight.

"Hey Fred." The horse reached his head over the fence top, and Rick massaged his face above and between the eyes. Kate offered the horse a carrot nub that Matt had dispensed for the occasion. Fred munched on it while Rick stroked his mighty neck.

Kate smiled, "You know each other."

Rick nodded. "He's a retired police horse."

A slow, glowing smile spread across Kate's face. "From your famous midnight ride?"

"It was more like 10:30 pm. I figured if he was going to be put out to pasture, mine was as good as any."

Esposito said, "What midnight ride?" But he was smiling. He was actually a good rider, and he loved horses. "Who do you think you are, Paul Revere?"

Ryan grinned. "Man, you really should read Castle's file someday. Hey, is that a llama?"

They hung out with Matt and the animals a little longer, then headed back to Manhattan. Castle sat in the back seat with Beckett this time, and she was asleep again soon after the SUV left the dirt road for pavement.


	20. Chapter 20

**Too Soon Chapter 20 – Raised By Wolves**

_Tonight there's fallen angels and they're waiting for us down in the street  
Tonight there's calling strangers, hear them crying in defeat.  
Let them go, let them go, let them go do their dances of the dead (let 'em go right ahead)  
You just dry your eyes girl, and c'mon c'mon c'mon let's go to bed, baby, baby, baby_

_I swear I'll drive all night just to buy you some shoes_  
_And to taste your tender charms_  
_And I just wanna sleep tonight again in your arms_

_**Bruce Springsteen – Drive All Night**_

* * *

They drove back into Manhattan at around 8:30 pm. Kate was asleep on Rick's shoulder again, and he wished he could just carry her in and lay her on the bed. But she awoke, looked out the window at their dingy motel, and sighed. "I wish we could go home."

Hunt said, "Let's find you someplace better to stay tonight." Rick went into the hotel room, threw all their stuff willy-nilly into suitcases, and stopped by the desk to drop off the keys.

Travis, the pasty-faced, greasy clerk with the "Born 2 Raze Hell!" tattoo on his neck, was absorbed in level 23 of Sugar Rush on his phone, and didn't even glance up at Castle. The battered-looking gimp with the skinny shemale boyfriend would be no great loss even though they'd paid cash.

Travis pointed absently at the sign, just in case the gimp couldn't read. "No refunds."

"I don't want a refund. I don't even want a receipt. But if I find so much as one bedbug in my luggage I will come back and burn this place to the ground," Castle said.

Travis glanced up and drawled, "Need a match?"

Castle stalked out.

The clerk called out when he thought the departing gimp was safely out of range. "Yeah, I'll give you a match. Your face and a monkey's ass!" Travis chuckled to himself. In his own circle of friends, he was considered quite a wit. Castle heard him and pulled up short, smiling grimly to himself.

Travis felt a shadow pass over him, and looked back up to see that same man with the fancy arm cast, buzz cut and broken nose looming over him. The man took a small packet of three matches out of his pocket and dropped them, unlit, one-by-one, on the counter, then stalked out again without a word. But his menacing glare gave Travis nightmares for a week.

"Uh, have a nice day!" the clerk stammered.

"You too, Travis." It occurred to Rick that his own hearing was almost back to normal. This cheered him up a bit.

* * *

Rick tended to be recognized at the fancier hotels in Manhattan, and technically, he was still "missing and presumed dead," so Jackson flagged their night-shift patrol guard, who suggested they caravan to the Congenial Inn over by JFK Airport. Rick paid cash for separate rooms for his dad, their guard (because what, they could see him and Kate being attacked on the 23rd floor from the patrol car?) and booked the bridal suite for himself and his lovely wife, who currently looked like a refugee from a Nirvana concert in baggy workman's clothes, a beanie, and a ratty little beard.

Unloading the van, Jackson said, "You taking the rocker upstairs?" He'd pulled it out and set it on the sidewalk to access the items Rick wanted to bring up. The chair's seat glided back and forth gently in its frame as if rocked by an invisible ghost. Rick smiled, remembering how Alexis used to love sitting in it, even as an older kid. His decorator had made him put it in storage because it was a 'cheap-looking old thing with ugly upholstery.' Rick probably shouldn't have slept with that woman. She was kind of a snob, although she'd had a spectacular... never mind...

Then he sighed. "Put it back in the van, I guess." He'd been stupid to bring it along since they had no safe home to go to, and the potential baby wasn't even going to need said rocker for another eight months. (At least he hoped not.)

Up on the 23rd floor, Rick tipped the bellboy, who had pushed the cart up with their odd assortment of boxes and the cop's surprisingly huge suitcase. When the busboy left to deliver the suitcase next door, Rick glanced around and said, "I feel sorry for the bride who considers this a luxury suite."

The whole room was decorated in shades of grayish-brown to brownish-gray, with an abstract print on the wall that resembled spilled oatmeal with cranberry bits. Kate flopped down on the bedspread and closed her eyes. The room was spinning a little. It might have been the artwork.

She said, "I'm so tired I could sleep in a tiger cage at the Bronx Zoo."

"It wouldn't be the first time we've slept with tigers. Let's consider that an option."

Castle smiled down at her then went into the bathroom to set up their toiletries in the hope of cleaning up and taking a hot shower. He realized with horror that when they'd applied the fake beard that morning, he'd just assumed she'd have an oily makeup remover, but those little towelettes she used were 'oil free'. Crap. So much for the barrel of baby oil.

He dialed Jackson Hunt's room.

"Yeah."

"Uh, Dad?"

There was a little pause. "Yeah."

"Uh. Look, I don't want to leave Kate, and, well, this is kind of personal, I don't want to ask the bodyguards, and it feels weird calling the concierge..."

"What, are you out of rubbers? I might have one in my p-"

"No! No. No." Rick put a hand over his eyes. "But I do need a drugstore run."

"What for?"

"Um, got paper?"

Sigh. "Yeah."

Rick's voice cracked. "A bottle of baby oil, a pregnancy test, and some saltines."

Rick heard Jackson Hunt laughing, not only over the phone, but through the wall into the next room. He heard Hunt laughing as his door slammed, shaking the hollow walls, and as he stalked down the hall to the elevator. Over the phone, Hunt said, "Want me to pick up some cigars, too?"

"Oh, GOD, NO!" Rick said, almost retching. "No tobacco. But some milk might be nice. And, um, if they have ginger tea..."

"Oh, for God's sake, Richard, women have been doin' this for thousands of years without ginger tea."

"Well technically dad, they've also been doing it for hundreds of years _with_ ginger tea."

"Whatever." The elevator dinged, and Hunt hung up.

* * *

A half hour later, Hunt stepped out of the the nearest all-night pharmacy and returned to the van. He unlocked the door, slipped into the seat, and was about to fasten the seat belt when he noticed the rocker moving back and forth behind him. There were two things Jackson Hunt knew: the rocker had something of a hair trigger. The other thing that he knew was that the van had very, very good shocks, and it hadn't moved an inch.

He ducked as the bullet from the back flew past him, shattering into the dashboard. He was out of the seat in a fraction of a second, gun drawn, and before his assailant could even exit from the back, Hunt was on him. This man was big, about his height, and strong. A good fighter, his face hidden even in this warm night by a balaclava. He seemed to be about Hunt's age, and his brown eyes glared, chilling and merciless. They went at it in the parking lot, and for a moment, Jackson Hunt was afraid he wouldn't have time to warn Rick, if indeed it was Rick the man was after. The attacker had Hunt down on the ground, on his back, a gun in his face, and said, "Michael's waiting for you. He said he'd see you in hell."

That apparently was enough for Al the DrugSmart Late Shift Pharmacy Manager, who had, without their noticing, seen the fight and stepped out into the parking lot with his trusty (though never actually fired) 12-gauge shotgun. He selected the Bad Guy – at least he hoped it was the Bad Guy since he seemed to be winning – and blew him away. The assailant flopped down, twitching and gurgling, peed himself, and lay still. It was not at all like in the movies.

Hunt lay back on the ground, panting. "Thanks, man."

The manager gave him a hand up. Hunt dusted himself off, grinning wryly. "Asphalt is so much harder than it used to be." He heard approaching sirens.

"I dialed 911," the manager said. He was a big African American man, possibly a former linebacker, now balding and paunchy. He was breathing hard too. A small crowd was gathering, both from the street and inside the store.

A young slacker in an Anarchy T-shirt bent over the dead assailant and before Hunt could say "Don't...", the kid had removed the balaclava. He looked from the dead man, white-haired and bearded, to Hunt and then back again.

"What, are you dude's like, clones or somethin'?"

Al the Manager looked at the dead man and the live man, and said, "Get out. That your bro? Your momma teach you to fight in parking lots?"

Jackson Hunt shrugged. "Raised by wolves, I guess."

He was back in the van and roaring out of the parking lot before anyone even thought to move. The moment he was three blocks away, he slowed to a Law-Abiding Citizen pace that nobody would mark as unusual, then pulled into a lot full of white rental vans. He wiped it down, regretfully poured most of the baby oil around the interior, set the van on fire, and divested himself of his dark leather jacket. This revealed an eye-bleedingly ugly black bowling shirt with orange flames on the hems and going up one flank. Carrying the white bag from the pharmacy, he walked away down the dark mixed-use street and hotwired a '70 Pontiac GTO that had obviously been stolen so many times nobody bothered to lock it anymore. It smelled like vomit, but that was pretty much always the case with Goats, so that was all right.

Back at the pharmacy, Al dropped the shotgun and gripped his upper left arm. "Oh, shit," he said. "Shit, shit..." He sank to his knees.

The Anarchy Kid ran into the pharmacy, crying. "Shit!" he hollered. "That guy's havin' a fuckin' heart attack!" He ran back to the pharmacist who assumed he was there to rob the place. The pharmacist rolled down the security door and hit the panic button. The store's alarm went off, with lights flashing and a blaring klaxon.

The Kid cast around desperately, and an old lady tapped him on the shoulder, screeching into his ear. "Sweetheart, I think you need the defib box." She pointed with an arthritic finger at the wall-mounted unit by the drinking fountain (I know. Stupid, right?)

The Kid grabbed the box and ran for the parking lot. The old lady hobbled up to the pharmacy gate and banged on it with her cane. "What are you doing in there, pissing yourself?"

* * *

Hunt hurried back to the hotel, phoning Rick on the way. "Hey. We've been compromised. Get Kate down to the lobby with your cop and stay there in plain sight. Leave anything non-essential, but bring your gun."

Hunt was proud to notice Rick's steady voice. "See you there. Be careful, Dad."

Hunt hesitated. "You too, son."

They hung up, and Rick awakened Kate, who'd fallen asleep, little beard and all. She looked so pale. She sat up and said, "What is it?" Then her color changed to green and she ran to the bathroom.

"You just do that, I'll pack us up. We gotta go."

Between retches, Kate said, "What happened?"

He called the cop next door, but he didn't answer. "Shit." He banged on the wall, hoping to awaken him. Then a sleepy voice picked up. "Crap. Sorry, Mr. Castle."

"We have to move out. Someone's tailed us." Rick dialed his mother's burner phone. She was still up and perky, of course. "Mother, it's me."

"Richard, Darling!"

"Someone's on our tail. Is Alexis with you?"

"We were just playing cards with James. I have to say, it's quite difficult keeping oneself entertained when..."

"I want you to call Esposito and have him come watch over you, ok? I have to go." He hesitated. Never let the chance go by. "Love you, Mother. Alexis too. And we're okay, at least for now." He hung up and ran to the bathroom.

Poor Kate was hugging the toilet. She said ruefully, "That pie was better going down."

"Beckett. I know it's hard..."

"No, Castle, you don't!" she snapped.

"Someone tailed us. I think they attacked my dad."

The adrenaline of the moment seemed to clear her head. She stood shakily, flushed, washed her hands quickly and rinsed her mouth. "Let's go." She stared at her bearded self in the mirror and whimpered in frustration.

They took only a few things: Rick's file from the Head Start preschool, the old VHS tape, the little silver bag, the toiletry bag with toothbrushes and Rick's meds. Taking a look at Kate's grey complexion, Rick also swiped a plastic trash bucket. That came in handy when Kate vomited in the elevator. Rick and the cop looked at her sympathetically as the smell of half-digested cherry pie steamed up from the receptacle. She brightened after that. "I feel a bit better now." The smell was horrific. Rick stifled a gag. The cop apparently had no sense of smell; it didn't phase him.

When they got to the ground floor, they waited in the lobby as Jackson had advised, in a position that felt too open but at least wouldn't leave them cornered.

The sound of a dart gun is so very soft.

The cop staggered, grabbing at a spot on his neck. Kate pulled Rick down behind a teal sofa, and they crouched there. He could feel her shaking, her eyes darting desperately. "Stay down, Castle," she breathed.

He was suddenly seized with an overwhelming protective rage. He jumped back up and drew his gun with a roar, only to be met by his father in a ridiculous black bowling shirt embellished with stylized orange flames. Oh, and black skulls. He had a nifty little dart blowgun.

"Dad, what the hell?"

"Your cop's dirty," Hunt said. "He's no cop."

"How'd you know?"

"Well, the real cop's body in his trunk was sort of a giveaway. Then after I called you, I went up the back elevator and checked his room while you were all on your way down in the elevator. He's got surgical equipment all laid out. And jars of formaldehyde."

Kate and Rick exchanged a terrified gaze, and she handed him the bucket just in time.

The night desk clerk was hiding behind the front counter. He was fortyish, his head wrapped in a mustard-colored turban that matched his hotel-issued vest. He croaked out, "I have already called the police! I am making a citizen's arrest!"

Jackson said, "Thank you!" and shot him in the neck with another dart. He collapsed into blissful sleep. Hunt dodged behind the counter and dialed 911. In quite a convincing accent, he said, "Yes, hello, 911. We are having a bit of a problem here with a serial killer in the lobby. Yes, JFK Congenial Inn on the Nassau Expressway. Yes, My name is Ranjit Singh. Yes, a serial killer. Yes, because there is a body in the patrol car in the parking lot, and the maid found body parts in room 2314. No, I am sorry, she has fainted and also tendered her resignation. Yes, Some crazy man just darted him and drove off in a white Toyota Corolla. No, I am sorry, I did not get the license plate, my vision is somewhat blurry. In fact I think you should send an ambulance..." Hunt dropped the receiver with a thud. They could already hear the sirens approaching.

He grabbed a reasonably fresh waste bucket from under the counter, leaving behind the old one. Then he led Kate and Rick out of the hotel and they ran for an old blue bomb of a car.

Rick glanced around. "Where's the van?"

"Yeah, too bad about the rocker," Jackson said.

Rick's voice might have squeaked just a little. "My rocker?"

Hunt didn't bother responding, just opened the door, Kate and Rick slid into the back seat. "Stay low." He'd hot-wired the car, and it took a moment to get started.

The back seat was a disaster: cracked vinyl cushions, chunks of foam missing, exposed springs, and it was littered with fast food wrappers, mostly-empty oil containers, and spray paint cans. Kate wrinkled her nose. "I thought my bucket smelled bad."

They passed the patrol car on their way out of the lot. Kate noticed its trunk was wide open. "Body in there?"

Hunt nodded. "Yeah. What's left of it. I think some of the pieces were up in the room."

Kate heaved. Rick said, "I think we're gonna need a new bucket."

"His and hers?" said Jackson.

"Fuck you." But Rick had a half smile on his face.

"So. Where to?"

"Bronx zoo?" Kate muttered.

Castle patted her shoulder. "You know, this is gonna sound weird, but let's just pick up the folks and and Alexis and go back to the loft."

"FBI won't approve."

"Screw them. I've had it with the safe houses and dodging around. If 3XK's buddies wanna come get us, at least we'll see them coming," Rick said.

Kate agreed. "I'd rather be near the 12th than anywhere else."

Hunt's eyes crinkled approval. "Home advantage." He handed a plastic pharmacy bag back to Rick. "Have some ginger ale and saltines."

"I thought you were gonna get ginger _tea_."

"I'll just fashion a crude stove out of an empty pop can and boil it up on the manifold as we drive."

Rick took out his notebook. "You can do that?"

You could hear Kate's eyes rolling all the way from Rockaway Beach.


	21. Chapter 21

**TooSoon Chapter 21: Plus One**

_The look of love  
Is in your eyes  
A look your smile can't disguise  
The look of love  
It's saying so much more  
Than words could every say  
And what my heart has heard,  
Well, it takes my breath away._

_I can hardly wait to hold you  
Feel my arms around you,  
How long I have waited,  
Waited just to love you,  
Now that I have found you,  
Don't ever go, don't ever go,  
I love you so..._

_We were so in love, and high above_  
_We had a star to wish upon. wish_  
_And dreams come true, but not for me_  
_The trains and boats and planes_  
_Took you away, away from me._  
_"The Look of Love" - Burt Bacharach, 1967_  
_Soundtrack for Casino Royale_

__  
I've never even see Casino Royale. I was just looking for  
a song Martha and Jackson might have made love to in August of 1968._

* * *

**June 17, 10:30 p.m.**

"Any sign of a tail?" said Jackson. They were looking for a likely parking spot in Hell's Kitchen.

Rick glanced out the back window of the Pontiac for the 100th time. "Nothing, but there are a lot of taxis out, so it's hard to tell."

Hunt turned the GTO into an alley behind a row of restaurants, and they got out. "You two wait here," Hunt said, and went out to the street, looking for all the world like a lost tourist. Kate took her Bucket-o'-Puke and tossed it into a dumpster while Castle wiped the car for prints. It was so damn grubby that it hardly mattered, but it seemed prudent. Then he moved the driver's seat forward to make it look like a shorter person had driven it, rearranged the rear-view mirrors, and even wiped off the seat adjustment handle. Working with Beckett had taught him a lot.

Hunt hailed a cab and called for The Kids (for so he now thought of them), and they arrived unscathed at Broome Street around 10:45. Castle felt strange, entering the lobby of his home for the first time in weeks, limping and scarred. The night watchman, Jorge, recognized Kate first. "Ms. Beckett?" He looked at her closely. She looked haggard, had some sort of oily pink rash on her upper lip and chin, and wore baggy Carharts. She took off her knit cap and her hair tumbled down, then he lost all doubt when he saw her radiant smile. She was so different from the hard, sharp woman who'd swept through with a scowl and a badge six years before.

Kate smiled, hurried to Jorge and took his hand. "Jorge. It's Mrs. Castle now," she said quietly, and she gestured to Rick with a smile. Jorge stared closely at Rick with a little scowl. "I'm sorry, we were told to watch for people who look like you but aren't." Castle was still a bit bruised, the stitches removed but the scar on his right temple still livid, and his nose was not quite back to its usual self.

Jorge said, "So you are not dead after all?"

Rick said, "Thanks for your caution. Have Mother and Alexis gone up yet?"

Jorge balked, still frowning at Castle and Hunt. "Describe Miss Alexis' prom dress?"

"Strapless. Sort of a metallic teal taffeta," Castle said.

Jorge grinned. "She told me it was seafoam, but all right then." He shook hands with Rick, whose crooked smile would have settled the question three minutes earlier. "Welcome back, Mr. Castle. Your girls are upstairs already."

"Discretion, all right?"

"Absolutely, sir. We've had all kinds of press here. Miss Paula's helped me chase them off a few times."

"She can be a real goddess when she wants to be," Rick smiled. Jorge squinted at Hunt. The squint turned to a real stink-eye.

Hunt grinned. "Jackson Hunt. I'm... with them."

Jorge nodded. He prided himself on never forgetting a face. He could have sworn he'd seen this man dressed as a repairman a few times over the years, seeming to bounce from job to job – plumbing, electrical, greensman... "Have we met, sir?"

"Not formally." The elevator chimed. "If you'll excuse me..."

* * *

Rick's keys had been melted in the car fire, but Kate took hers out and was about to open the door to the loft when Martha swept it open, looking insanely radiant in a swath of turquoise and orange. Jackson just stood behind their kids and stared at her.

"There you are, Darlings, I was just about to open a bottle of something to celebrate our homecoming." Rick and Kate waited a moment, and Jackson gave them a look askance then stepped in past them.

"Well, come in!" Martha smiled, puzzled.

Rick turned to Kate with tears in his eyes, his hands on her shoulders. "I know this is silly, but I wanted to carry you over the threshold," he sighed. It was almost a whine. He looked down at the cast on his right arm, and she smiled, reaching down to pull up gently on his belt loops.

"I could carry _you, _Castle."

He considered, tilting his head with a smile, and then pressed his forehead against hers. He wanted to melt into her, even though she smelled really bad. "Beckett. I have no doubt you could, theoretically, but... maybe no heavy lifting just now."

Kate's face lit up. "You're right. With any luck I'm already carrying..." she grabbed Rick's hand and hauled him past Martha, who dodged out of the way, flummoxed.

"Well, no point in saying hello, then," Martha groused. "I'll just stand here looking beautiful."

Jackson twinkled at her. "That's not exactly a challenge."

Martha preened.

Rick paused just a moment to peck his mother on the cheek. "We'll just be a moment," he explained. Kate was rummaging in the bag Jackson had left on the kitchen counter. She found a little pink-and-blue box. Beaming, she dragged a happily acquiescent Rick through the office and bedroom, and into the bathroom. The door slammed.

Martha looked over at Jackson, who was foraging through the somewhat empty fridge. "Not exactly decorous."

"They've had a long night, and she's not feeling so well. Hey, do you still keep champagne around in case of a celebration?"

Her eyes sparkled. "You remember that?"

"How could I forget? You're a one-woman party."

"It's in the wine cooler, not the food fridge. Bottom shelf on the right," she smiled, and started to pull out glasses.

Jackson spun and shut the fridge door with a backward thrust of his shoulder blades, the motion so like their son's that it took Martha's breath away. He bent to the smaller fridge and found the bubbly. "Ice bucket?"

Martha produced it, suddenly feeling herself all aflutter, and let him hold it while she dispensed the ice.

Jackson reached into the bag on the counter, pulled out a six-pack of ginger ale, and set that on the counter too. "Just in case," he said.

Martha thought back on Kate's pink-and-blue box and gasped, wide-eyed. "Oh, my God. Do you think...?"

"I won't know until you do," Jackson said. He leaned back against the kitchen counter, just looking at her. She felt a little shy suddenly, and began bustling around. "I'm sorry, there's not much in the way of snacks around. You must all be hungry."

"Empty, at least," he smiled. He gave her a rundown on the evening, leaving out the part about the drug store parking lot shootout and car theft, because... really did she need to know? "...So either Kate has the flu, or you're going to be a grandma again."

On arriving that evening, Martha, Jim, and Alexis had opened all the windows to bring some fresh air into the loft. It had been built in the 1800s and remodeled many times for different purposes. While these weren't the original windows, Rick hated the feel of a sealed building with canned air. He'd argued endlessly with Gina, Martha, and the architect about it. They maintained a sealed building is quieter and has slightly more efficient use of energy, even if the air feels flat and stale. Rick insisted that a) he wanted to be able to open the windows if there was a power outage or fire and b) he was the one writing the checks.

Finally they'd compromised on double-paned picture windows, with the smaller ones and even the skylight having double-paned casements to open and close. And it was a good choice, with the faint tooting of horns and sirens, and the gentle, humid breeze of a New York summer evening wafting in. As Rick had said when they had the loft remodeled, "What's the point of living in the city if you never hear any noise?"

* * *

Jackson had Martha laughing her head off with his description of the hotel clerk and the blowgun. Over her laughter, they heard a distant whoop, and Rick's triumphant voice: "YES!" This came more through the open kitchen window than through Rick's office. A moment later Alexis came out of the upstairs bathroom, dressed for bed, a portable blow-dryer humming through her hair. "What are they _doing_ in there?" she frowned, puzzled. She caught sight of her grandfather and he noticed a moment's shy hesitation, even though they'd met more than a few times now. He'd saved her life, and looked after her dad, but they all had reasons not to trust him. He didn't want to push himself on her.

"Hello, Alexis," he smiled.

"Hey, Jackson," she said. She holstered the blow-dryer in the pocket of her robe. At least she wasn't calling him 'Mr. Hunt' anymore. She gave him a little wave, then approached him and they exchanged a brief, rather clumsy hug.

Next Jim Beckett poked his head out of the guest room. He came out in his dressing gown and pajamas, looking a bit unsettled. He wasn't much of a night owl, and moving out from the safe house had been hard, now this ruckus with Kate and Rick. "Did I hear Katie?"

Castle burst out of the bathroom in his Star Wars pajama bottoms and a T, limping as fast as his sore ankle would let him, Kate clinging to his arm. Both were freshly showered. Her hair was wrapped in a damp towel, and she wore some leggings and a ragged Nebula9 Tshirt. He was holding a little white stick, and their smiles lit up the room. "Ladies and gentlemen, we have a plus sign."

Oh, the noise! Jim folded his daughter in his arms and kissed the top of her head. "Your mom would be so happy, KatieBug," he whispered. The other side of the family was a bit more rambunctious. Martha dug up a megaphone somewhere, and after about five minutes, the neighbors called the police. Ryan and Esposito showed up twenty minutes later and nearly knocked Castle down with a massive group hug when he flung the door open.

"Minute I drop them off I have to turn around and come back down here," Esposito griped to Alexis.

She rolled her eyes and giggled. "No rest for the brave." He puffed up and strutted a little.

"I knew it man, I knew it!" Ryan crowed. They bustled into the loft, bearing flowers and beer instead of guns and badges. Ryan handed out organic dark-chocolate cigars.

Kate sipped her ginger ale from a crystal goblet and glared at her partners. "So. There's a pool. Who won?"

"No pool," Esposito said.

"Seriously," said Castle. "There's always a pool."

"Not yet," said Ryan. "Kathy won the pool for Kate's dress being trashed before the wedding even happened. But we held off on a baby pool until you made an announcement."

The loft phone rang. Martha answered it and sang out, "Oh, thank you, Elena darling. Katherine, it's for you." She gave Kate the handset. Kate switched it to speaker.

Lanie's voice squawked, "Hey! Why didn't you tell me?"

"Hi Lanie! Tell you what?" Kate was grinning into the phone. She put it on speaker.

"You're pregnant, and you didn't even tell me first? I thought we were BFFs." She wasn't actually mad, just huffing for effect.

"I just did the test twenty minutes ago, Lanes." Kate glared around the room accusingly at her partners. "Javi?"

"Wasn't me," Esposito swore, his brown eyes wide and innocent.

"Nope, it wasn't Javi," Laney laughed. "I know LoQuatia Green in dispatch."

"LoQuatia?"

"She's aptly named. She called me and said there was a drunk and disorderly from your address, some lady screamin' 'I'm gonna be a grandma!' out an open window. She got five calls in the space of two minutes. Your neighbors are pisssssed."

Rick said, "Mother's never had any trouble projecting her voice, but I wouldn't have thought news would travel that fast."

Alexis said, "I'm donating that megaphone to charity first thing in the morning."

Lanie said, "I'm hangin' up now, I can hear y'all from Brooklyn." She wasn't actually in Brooklyn. She was actually in the morgue, having received the body of an older man who'd been shot dead in a pharmacy parking lot by a store manager three hours before. But she didn't want to put a damper on things. "Now pipe down." She hung up, grinning, and went back to work on the old man. He'd been in a fight with another old man. The parking lot surveillance video was really, really weird.

Everyone laughed, but for a moment, a shadow of anxiety flashed over Castle's face. Who else already knew that Kate was expecting? He and Hunt exchanged a troubled glance. _One more person to protect._ One more worry.

Ryan saw that mirror-image expression between the two men, and having five brothers and three sisters, he knew in his bones what he was seeing: father and son. Ryan took a pull off his beer and clapped Rick gently on the shoulder. "We've got your back, man," he muttered.

Castle smiled and said quietly, "I know. And I have yours." He raised his voice and looked around the room. "I hate to put the kibosh on this party, but my wife is now gestating, and needs her beauty rest."

Esposito said, "But we just got here." Ryan was already hauling him to the door, and he was only protesting in fun.

Rick picked up the megaphone. "Don't make me use this."

* * *

The Castle household settled down pretty quickly; Alexis went upstairs to her bedroom, Jim to the guest room. Castle and Beckett, who were both suddenly exhausted, stumbled back to the bathroom, and Castle made her brush her teeth for the second time since they'd returned to the loft "because your spit changes when you're pregnant and you can get cavities."

Kate scowled, foaming at the mouth. "How do you remember all this stuff?"

"Only when needed, Kate. Only when needed."

She spat into the sink and rinsed her mouth, went to leave the bathroom, stopped and peed again. "Is the whole pregnancy going to be like this?

Rick shrugged. His face said, _"Probably,"_ but his mouth said, "I don't remember."

"Eh, fuck you."  
He grinned. "That's what got me into this situation in the first place."

She finished up and washed her hands. When he came to bed, she was dazed. He set his own alarm for 7 am - there was a lot to accomplish the next day - and placed a clean, full glass of water next to Kate on the nightstand. She mumbled, "Thangyoubabe" and was out.

He slipped between their very own clean, smooth sheets with a sigh, and draped his left arm over his very own wife with another sigh, and splayed a large, protective hand over her warm tummy. He rumbled happily, like a bear settling in to hibernate. When he closed his eyes, it wasn't so good. Other thoughts drifted up, bad thoughts, thoughts that hurt and scared him, but he set them aside. _"Not tonight. Not tonight. Not now. Fuck off, Mephistopheles. You can't have me. You can't have her. You can't have us."_

He spoke softly into Kate's still-damp hair. "Tonight we're here. Nothing else matters."

"Mmm," she said.

He had a powerful imagination. He let himself believe it, and drifted into exhausted, dreamless sleep. 

* * *

Martha and Jackson cleaned up the kitchen, what little there was to do: recycle empty bottles and cans, load the dishwasher, wipe down the counter.

Martha looked in the bag on the counter, reached in and smiled at the ginger tea, then pulled out the video cassette, puzzled. "Oh, no," she moaned.

Jackson turned to her. "What?"

"Ugh. _This_ awful thing." The tape, still in crumbling shrink wrap, had never been watched. "Dark Queen of Palladia."

"That's a great movie. I've seen it five times."

"Really."

"All right, twice." She gazed at him reprovingly, and he caved with a charming grin. "Once, then I fast forwarded through the bad parts."

"Darling, that's all there were. Bad parts. At least as far as I know. I had a falling-out with the director and couldn't bring myself to watch it." Jackson washed his hands and wiped them with a dish towel. "Oh, there were good parts. You in a brass bikini, raining hell on barbarian hordes?" He grinned wickedly.

"It was bronze," she smirked.

"It was a good performance. You have quite the maniacal laugh."

"Don't tempt me," Martha chuckled, then frowned a little. "I wonder what Richard wants with this."

Jackson said, "I think you know."

She bit her lip. "You think Richard and Michael wound up on the cutting room floor?"

Jackson shrugged. "I honestly don't remember seeing either of them. It's waited this long. It can wait till tomorrow." He took the video gently, and put it back in the bag. "I, uh, wonder if I could get a sleeping bag or a throw. I'll just turn in on the sofa. For, uh..."

Martha gave him a long, slow smile.

"...For the night," he finished.

"Alec," she murmured. "If that's your real name."

He nodded, his brown eyes suddenly young and bright in his lined face. "Yeah. Alexander. I wasn't lying back then. I'm not lying now."

Martha took his hand gently, assessing without comment that his knuckles were banged up, most likely from punching someone.

She purred his name again. "Alec. One place you won't be lying tonight is on the couch." She took his hand and led him to her room. The first thing he did was close the windows, because he knew from long-ago experience that Martha had quite a set of lungs on her.

The second thing he did was smile.


	22. Chapter 22

**TooSoon Chapter 22 **

**The Nickname (somewhat edited for propriety)**

_This old familiar craving_  
_ I've been here before, this way of behaving_  
_ Don't know who the hell I'm saving anymore_  
_ Let it pass let it go let it leave_  
_ From the deepest place I grieve_  
_ This time I believe_

_ And I let go [x2]_  
_ I can let go of it_  
_ Though it takes all the strength in me_  
_ And all the world can see_  
_ I'm losing such a central part of me_  
_ I can let go of it_  
_ You know I mean it_  
_ You know that I mean it_  
_ I recognize how much I've lost_  
_ But I cannot face the cost_  
_ 'Cause I love to be loved_

_ Yes I love to be loved_  
_ I love to be loved - Peter Gabriel_**  
**

**June 18, 5 a.m. **

The press got wind. Maybe it was LoQuatia. Maybe it was someone from the 12th talking at Remy's. Anyway, the news that Richard Castle had survived his car crash – "_or was it an alien abduction?"_ - lit up the internet, and then TV and print. At dawn the vultures were waiting, although nobody in the Castle loft had a clue of the goings-on downstairs. Rick's burner phone did the tarantella on his bedside table just after 5:15 a.m.

He jumped and grabbed it blindly, looked at the caller ID, and groaned. "Not now, Paula." He let it go to voice mail. Then he heard the house phone ringing in the kitchen, and a distant whining noise, like an overlarge mosquito in an echo chamber. "Blah blah, bla blabla bla. Bla? Blah! Blaaaaaaah. Bla bla blah blah. Blaah? Blah. Bla blah." Beeeeeep.

No stopping Paula once she was on a mission. Castle rolled out of bed and used the bathroom, stared at his lumpy head in the mirror, and sighed. His eyes were puffy. He was glad he hadn't had any champagne last night, in deference to Kate's wrinkled little Disapproving Bunny nose.

"_We're gonna have a baby,"_ he thought. A crooked grin crept across his reflection's face. "Helllo, therrrre, Daddddyyyy," he chuckled, flexing and posing as well as he could with a bum arm. The scar over his busted hip pulled a little, but he didn't care. "Still got it." He pinched a half-inch of squishy that had returned since he was hospitalized, grimaced, and admonished himself in the mirror: "No more sympathetic pregnancies."

Carrying his phone, he walked through the bedroom. "Body drop?" Kate mumbled.

He leaned over her, brushed away soft, wavy caramel hair and kissed her temple. "Nope. Just a phone call. Sleep."

"Mhm."

He went to the kitchen, mixed up some frozen orange juice, and listened to his voice mail.

"You know, you coulda told me you were comin' outta the closet," Paula squawked. "I had to hear you're back from the morning news? Riiiiick. I know you're there. Pick up. Rick? (sigh.) Call me."

"Aw, shit," he grumbled, and dialed her. "Paula. It's Rick."

"Ohmigawwwd. The protical returns."

_Prodigal._ "I'm so sorry. This is all kind of unexpected." He filled the kettle and set it to boil.

"Kind of... Jeez, Rick, Gina's goin' around like the weight of the world's on her padded little shoulders, I don't hear from you, everyone else thinks you're dead, Black Pawn's planning a memorial tribute, and you pull this on me."

"Paula, I'm sor-"

"You are fuckin' genius. Sales are … well, screw the roof. There is no roof. We're gonna have to add on an extra floor."

"I, uh..."

"That dude Espotiso gave me your burner number when I called him a couple minutes ago."

_"You called Esposito at 5 a.m.?"_

"Where are you?"

"At the loft."

"Good! There's a shitload of reporters down there now, and a bunch of fans with balloons by the shrine area."

Rick had barely noticed the shrine area, a little pile of burned-out candles, teddy bears... he'd thought it was for a traffic accident or something. They'd come home late, they'd been in disguise, and he'd been 'missing and presumed dead' for over three weeks. So the tributes, which Gina's team collected and cleaned up regularly, donating the usable stuffed animals and flowers, hadn't been that numerous at the time, and there'd been no fans at vigil. "NO! No, I don't want them here. Look, Paula, can you call them off?"

"Why would I want to-"

"Listen. I won't go into it, but we've been on the run. There were people after us, me and Kate, my whole family. Really bad people. The FBI..."

"Are frickin' useless..."

"Oh, trust me, they aren't." Rick paused, which with Paula, was always a mistake.

"Look, Rick, I'm sure you..."

"Shut up," he barked.

"_Did you just tell me to shut up?"_ She almost laughed, disbelieving. Rick just wasn't the type. "What's got into you?"

"Something bad, Paula. Something really bad." _Something evil._ "Now you listen to me. I need you. I need you to take these assholes _off my tail_. Set up a press conference for 2:30 today at the 12th Precinct steps. I want a rep from the FBI there. Jordan Shaw, if possible."

"3:30... 12th precinct... Jordan Shaw..."

"If you can get her. And a rep from the CIA as well. I want to meet with them at 3 pm in homicide..." he was writing the story as he went along. A plan so crazy...

"Wait, you said 2:30."

"That's outside, for the press."

"Oh, gotcha.

"And..." he sighed. "And I want you to bring Meredith in. 1 p.m. I want her in a dark wig and big sunglasses. Back door entrance, I'll arrange to have someone meet her there. We wouldn't want anyone to think she's being arrested."

"Meredith-your-ex-wife-Meredith?"

"Yeah. Tell her if she doesn't show up I'll have my lawyer re-adjust her alimony so badly she'll never see another dime."

"Haha, she'll make tracks, the little bitch."

"Hey, now, she's still my daughter's mother," he warned. He opened the ginger tea box and unwrapped a bag. The dangler had a little phrase on it: _Love Conquers All. _

"Aw, come on, you were thinkin' it."

"Never. Besides, in that case, Alexis' acorn rolled straight uphill from Meredith's tree. Hey, look, I gotta go, my toast is... oh, damn it." He rattled the empty toaster for a sound effect.

"Meredith at one p.m., Paula." He calmly poured boiling water over the ginger tea bag.

Paula's voice was muffled; she had the phone balanced on her shoulder, and he heard a horn honking. Where in hell was she driving at 5:45 in the morning?

"Meredith. Two p.m. 12Th Precinct. Bye." He hung up with a sigh and poured himself a second glass of orange juice, then headed back to the bedroom with the two beverages. The sun was barely slicing in through the window treatments, and Kate had turned toward his empty side of the bed, her arm flung out as though reaching for him. He realized she'd taken off her T-shirt and leggings sometime during the night. She'd kicked off the blankets, and the white sheet draped her form. She looked like a marble Aphrodite, perfect, relaxed, remote as a goddess.

He set his alarm for 7:30 a.m. A little more precious time to himself, a little more time with Kate, an oasis and balm for his eyes and mind. Peeling off his night clothes, he slipped into the bed naked, and took her hand. She opened her eyes with a jolt, then smiled at him, comforted that he'd returned, and let them drift closed again. She wasn't normally the type who was able to go back to sleep once awakened. Usually she was hauling him out of bed, or pouncing on him for a bracing round of morning sex. But now she just draped onto his body, half-covering him, one leg tucked between his. She hummed and her weight sank onto him, warm and human. He reveled in this doziness, lulled by her radiant peace, knowing how precious sleep was becoming now that a little life swam inside...

His heart skipped, and breath just seemed to leave him. The voice in his head slithered down into his chest, squeezing his heart and ribs like a giant, sparking fist. So much could go wrong. Miscarriages, congenital defects, delivery problems, childhood diseases, playground accidents, dog bites, preeclampsia, cleft palate, displaced placenta, zombie plagues... there was nothing he could do to keep her safe. To keep their baby safe. The responsibility and the terror smote him hard. He lay trembling, afraid to waken her if he stayed, and also afraid to waken her if he got up. He was frozen, undecided. Anything he did could go wrong, horribly wrong. Meredith's pregnancy hadn't affected him this way. Of course not. He'd been young, stupid, idealistic, naïve. But he was old now, too old to be a father again, likely to drop dead before the child reached high school. Everything could go south in a heartbeat. Kidnapped, like Alexis or the three girls. Bludgeoned and stuffed into a dryer. Shot by a negligent friend. Left in a freezer for five years. Leaning against a garbage can in a filthy alley, bleeding out alone like Johanna...

"NO!" He sat up, and the horned figure that leaned over the bed, whispering sweet horrors in his dreaming ears, faded away with a flare of pink sparks on his long fingers.

Kate rolled on her back, disoriented, and yawned, blinking in sleepy concern. "You okay, Castle?"

"Bad dream," he sighed. He took a sip of juice. It was still cold, and her ginger tea was quite warm. "Amazing how much a dream can compress time."

She sat up and he handed her the tea mug. She looked at the paper tab. "Love Conquers All," she grinned, and waggled her eyebrows. "In bed."

He was still in a funk, trying to shake the nightmare away, glad for daylight. "That's fortune cookie talk," he said weakly.

She sipped the tea. "This is great, Babe. Thanks." She got up, stretched in all her glory, and popping half a saltine in her mouth, padded to the bathroom, wearing nothing but white bikini panties. He watched her as the morning light slid across her curves. She shut the door, and he finished his orange juice, then lay back against the pillow with his left forearm over his eyes, his world gone dark the moment she was out of the room. He breathed a long, ragged sigh.

He heard the door open and watched her emerge from the bathroom, smiling and divested of her panties. He hid the fear that he was becoming addicted to her, like a drug.

"How're you feeling this morning?"

"That ginger tea's a frickin' miracle."

"No, you are." Kate wasn't his drug. He understood drugs, things to try for fun or to kill a sickness, things you hoped to wean yourself off, things with side effects. No. Kate was water, air, sunlight, earth, essential building blocks of life that transcended pheromones and chemistry. She walked slowly toward the bed, morning sun glancing off her cream-gold skin, like an ivory saint in a museum. He couldn't help looking at her breasts, couldn't help thinking they were already a little rounder. The light caressed her body, and he longed to get in its way, to help it along, to rub it in, to make her glow even brighter.

"No, you are." She knelt on the bed and crawled toward him. "We are. We're a miracle."

He wanted to say it, every worshipful thing that rushed through his mind. Too much. "You're like a cat sometimes," he smiled finally.

"I'm gonna make you purr like one," she whispered. She'd brushed her teeth, but her breath still smelled like ginger. Mint and ginger and sweet.

"Good to see you're wide awake."

She peeled the covers down past his hips. "Ooh. I see you're awake, too."

•

He was right, at least in Kate's case. Pregnancy hormones make for very intense sex indeed.

•

A while later she was back dozing again, her head on his chest, her hand nested over his spent package like a protective bird's wing. It was delightful and a little frustrating. He smiled to himself. _Good_ frustrating. He felt recharged, instead of drained, both emotionally and physically. Connected, whole. Safe, at least for the moment.

She murmured, "You don't have a nickname for me. "

He kissed her hair. "I don't?"

"No. No Sweetie, no Darling, no Angel, no Hot Stuff. You don't even call me Katie."

"I guess that's true." He cupped a hand over her breast. "I have little nicknames, but they're... they're not for you as a whole."

"Little nicknames?"

"Yeah." He cupped her small, firm, pointed breasts in his hand. "The Cupcakes."

"Mmm."

She arched her neck, gazing at him. He kissed her softly, then nipped. "Cherry-lips."

"I don't know if I'll ever be eating cherries again," she wrinkled her nose.

"Sure you will. Just maybe not cherry pie..."

She grimaced. He said, "Sorry."

"So, are all these nicknames culinary?"

"Not at all." He kissed her nose. "I call that 'Little Snootie.' Or sometimes 'Disapproving Bunny-Nose'."

He went back to her breasts. "Sometimes I like to visit Twin Peaks," he grinned.

She shot him a look.

"I have nicknames for some of your expressions. That's the Glance Askance, which is sometimes accompanied by the Shrug Huff. The milder cousin of the Freeze Glare, and the bastard half-sister of the Withering Stare of Imminent Doom."

Kate rolled her eyes and shoulders unconsciously.

"Haha. The Teenage Huff."

"TEENAGE!" She sat up, her teeth gritted.

"Why hello there, Jaw of Judgment," he giggled as she hit him with a pillow. She straddled him again. His eyes traveled down her body in feigned surprise and wonder. "You're still naked!" He ran his left palm down her side, and his right fingers. The rest of his lower arm and hand were still encased in the mesh cast.

She smelled like both of them from their previous session, and he inhaled softly. "The Heavenly Bouquet." His nostrils dilated, his pupils too, the cerulean gone almost to indigo, eyes hooded. She knew that was a very positive sign. She felt him move beneath her.

His fingers traveled across her breasts, circled her sniper scar. "The Path to Your Heart," he whispered reverently. They skated the silvering line from her heart surgery. "The Low Road." She leaned forward, her breasts touching his cheeks, and he kissed her, up and down her chest and ribs, pausing to suck, to nibble. Her pain threshold had dropped again, his touch insanely pleasurable on the sensitive nipples. She rocked back down to hover over his hips, finding there was considerably more to sit on than there had been, only moments ago.

His hand traveled down her belly to her navel. "Belly-dance central."

"You've never even seen me belly-dance," she grinned.

"Not to music, I haven't." She rolled the muscles, and a part of him showed great interest in coming along for the ride.

He caressed lower still. "Soft, furry little mound..." he smiled. "What puts the Ape in Apricot?"

"Courage!" she laughed.

There were more. I won't tell you what they were referring to, you'll have to figure it out for yourself. I do not recommend you ask your mother.

"Allow me to reacquaint myself with The Little Lady in the Pink Bonnet," he murmured, and she bucked against his finger with a soft moan.

"Any other nicknames?" she grinned.

"This is the pearl..." he circled it. "Here's the oyster."

"You feel like doing some pearl diving?" she grinned.

He winked at her. "After I shave. Oh, look, a pretty pink butterfly. What nice wings." He sighed happily. "I may be the only man on earth with his own pet butterfly."

"Welcome back," she breathed.

"The Merriest Place In the Universe!"

"Ohhh," Kate breathed pleasurably. "I'd always thought that was DinkeyWorld."

He snorted derisively. "DinkeyWorld? Hah. Believe me, I've had more fun in ..." he crooked his finger, and she responded with a moaning purr.

"Right there."

"In here. And the lines are a _lot_ shorter. Although I'll admit the wait to get into the park was hell." He circled his thumb, and swamped by a wave of sensation, the little lady in the pink bonnet ducked, then popped up again, ready for more. Kate whimpered. Rick sang the International Clockwork Doll Song in a small, squeaky voice, "It's a tiny world don't you know..."

Kate grunted. "Shut _up_. Do that again," she growled. He did that again, then pulled her down on him, his hands on her ass. The Mussel and the Pearl experienced some very stimulating tidal action.

His hand moved with a gentle rhythm. "Row, little boatman. Row your little pink boat." The man in the pink boat rowed toward Rick's Merriest Place for all he was worth, his soft canoe swamped by their mingled juices from last time.

"Hey, Perry."

"Castle..."

He chuckled and whispered, "Rosebud," then leaned in to lick her neck and nibble on her earlobe. He pulled out a moment, humming "Merrily, merrily merrily, merrily, life is but a dream..." and while she laughed around him, rubbed against that most sensitive place until she was frantic, pushing back against him, _more more more,_ then slammed himself back home, again and again.

"What are you... AH!" She jerked, spasming so hard that she wrung his release out of him, and they collapsed together, breathing together, breathing hard, laughing, but it was more than laughing, a sense of adventure shared, lines crossed willingly then tied back together in an endless knot.

"Also known as 'where no man has gone before,'" he added.

She giggled. "You have a filthy, filthy mind."

"True. Let's go shower." They got up and staggered into the bathroom, and Castle ran the water, got in and let it hammer on his suddenly-sore body while she used the toilet in relative privacy. He knew this kind of day-to-day intimacy was a stretch for her. He also knew that as her pregnancy progressed, her body was going to do things in its own way and time, and the more comfortable she felt with him, the more he'd be able to help her.

He washed and had started shaving when she stepped in and started to shampoo her hair, although she hardly needed to since they'd both showered last night. Her exquisite bottom bumped his hips softly when she bent to set the bottle back down. He nudged her, and she nudged back, but without much of a will. "I need to eat breakfast," she said.

He talked while shaving with his left hand, and of course cut himself. "Yes, you do. Ow." He rinsed the cartridge and took another swipe. "And lunch. And snacks. Second breakfast. Elevenses. High tea..."

"You sound like a hobbit."

"I can't reach to shave my feet, would you mind?"

"I'm afraid to bend over at this point," she laughed. "Maybe later."

"Wise woman. We don't have all day."

Her face shadowed. "True." She knew he had his daily appointment with Kelly Nieman at 10, and a debriefing with Dr. Aruna Patel at 11. "You doing okay, Castle?" They'd both rinsed, and he shut the water off. He didn't answer.

"Castle?"

He smiled bitterly as he dried his head off with a fluffy white towel. "No. For one thing, my head still feels like Velcro."

"Castle." She caught his gaze, took the towel away and wrapped it around his hips, pulling his body close. He didn't resist. "I wish you'd talk to me about this. I really want to know what's going on between you and Kelly Nieman."

He sighed. "I promise, I'll tell you one day. Suffice to say she's doing everything she can to bring out the worst in me, and... it's easy for her. I have a lot of worst. I'm like a sausage factory, and you don't know how those things are made."

Setting the dangled bait for a sausage pun aside, Kate cupped his face in her hands, eyes pleading. "I really want to help you."

"Oh, God, Kate, you are. Just do what you've always done."

Kate frowned slightly and bit her lip. "Treat you like crap, run screaming from intimacy, and engage in obsessive lip-chewing?"

His eyes were teary, but he chuckled. "No, the other thing. Keep bringing out my best."

She started to say one word, but changed her mind. "Forever, Rick."

He kissed her and wrapped himself around her, saying her name like a prayer. "Kate."

She smiled into his shoulder. "I know what my nickname is, now."

"Kate," he repeated. "Hardly anyone gets to call you that. You're my Kate. Not Katherine, not Kbex, not Beckett, not sweetie, angel, darling, peaches..." He held her so tightly she almost felt he was trying to pass into her, through her skin, and his words confirmed it. "When we make love, and you come away from it with something of me inside you, it's like... It's what I've wanted forever, just to love someone like this, to be..." his voice failed him.

"Carried, just a little," she whispered. He nodded silently.

She added, "Something bigger than yourself, than both of us. Even bigger than having a baby together."

"Yeah," he breathed. His voice was small. They stood together a long moment, embracing beyond words, drawing strength from one another. Her stomach growled, and she said, "Oh, I think someone's hungry."

"I have time to make pancakes."

"I'm beginning to think you're my spirit animal."

"Just another nickname," he shrugged. They dried off and dressed for the day. Rick was ready first, having a good deal less hair to manage. He grinned at Kate. "I don't know about you, but it smells like Alexis beat me to the pancake griddle." He stepped out into the great room, and Kate heard his voice squeak,

"_MOTHER?"_

into a falsetto range so high that dogs walking on the sidewalk five floors below pricked up their ears and barked. An echolocating dolphin in New York Harbor got distracted by the distant squeak and banged its nose on a tugboat. Thirty miles away, a bat named Puff mumbled, "O_h, come on, really_?", turned around in her sleep, and tucked her face into her leather-and-lace wing.

Unable to hear into the ultrasonic range, but somewhat alarmed by his tone, Kate hurried out of the bedroom to find Rick frozen in place.

Martha Rodgers was sitting on a stool by the kitchen island, She was wearing Jackson Hunt's black bowling shirt with the skulls and flames. And, thank God, leopard print leggings. She had just taken a sip of coffee, and gestured to them with a glowing smile. "Good morning, Darlings!"

Hunt, in jeans and a plain black T-shirt, glanced up at Rick with a brief, bashful grin, and a flourish of his spatula.

"You kids want pancakes?"


	23. Chapter 23

**Special thanks to Rabbit of Caerbannog for suggesting a song that reflects, in part, what might have come to Rick's mind at this particular stage of his journey. I've never listened to GNR before, so it's been an education. **

**Too Soon Chapter 23 – Sneeze Guard**

And when your fears subside  
And shadows still remain  
I know that you can love me  
When there's no one left to blame  
So never mind the darkness  
We still can find a way  
'Cause nothin' lasts forever  
Even cold November rain

Don't ya think that you need somebody  
Don't ya think that you need someone  
Everybody needs somebody  
You're not the only one  
You're not the only one  
_**November Rain – Guns N Roses**_

**June 18, noon**

After Richard Castle's frustrating session with Kelly Nieman, Dr. Aruna Patel met up with him in the hallway. "I was listening in. Are you frustrated with your level of progress?" She was hurrying along on short, plump legs, her sari swirling under her lab coat, trying to keep up with him. He moved fast, even with a limp. He glanced over and saw her trepidation, slowed himself. "Sorry." He was struck briefly with a wild longing for Beckett. How much more fun it was to pretend he couldn't keep up with her, than to be doing this with a relative stranger. And a psychiatrist at that. He said, "I'd rather not sit down on a couch today."

She nodded, her eyes understanding. "This way." She turned left, instead of right toward her office, and they went through a different checkpoint.

They came to the hospital cafeteria, and he held the door open for her. "May I buy you lunch?" he asked.

"Oh, no, I am on account here. Employees eat at no charge. The long hours can be very demanding."

He nodded and winced slightly at the menu offerings, hand-lettered in colored chalk on a blackboard. "_Salisbury Steak._ The last TV dinner I had was Salisbury Steak, and that was 1992."

The doctor beamed, white teeth flashing in mocha skin. "That may just be the same vintage. I'd recommend the tofu stir-fry, and it's not just because I'm vegetarian."

Rick nodded. "I'll have the same," he smiled at the server, and added to the psychiatrist, "There's something about the word 'sneeze guard' that just makes me want to sneeze on that glass."

She chuckled. "We humans are perverse creatures."

"I suppose you know that as well as anyone," he said ruefully.

"It's ingrained. Sometimes we survive out of sheer spite."

They sat together with their trays. Castle said, "I appreciate this. Otherwise I wouldn't have had time for lunch and I had trouble eating breakfast this morning."

"How so?"

"Well, the good news is that Kate's pregnant."

She could tell by his smile that he felt true joy about this development, and she echoed it. "Congratulations!"

"The weird news is that my mother is having sex with… my... father." He shuddered and speared a chunk of tofu. "It's just creepy."

The doctor laughed sympathetically. "How Freudian for you. Stranger things have happened. My parents had seven children. When my mother explained where babies come from..." she spread her fingers and pressed the tips to her temples, hard. Her hands were stained with a lacy, darker brown henna pattern – she'd been to a wedding the weekend before. "I thought my head was going to explode."

Rick's eyes grew wide and he whispered in mock-shock, "The horror. The _horror._"

"I know, right?" she faked a shudder. Then she grew serious, chewing thoughtfully on a bite of sweet red pepper. "Any one of the challenges you're facing... we are talking of serious upheaval, Rick. Life-changing events."

He nodded. "That which does not kill me..."

"Makes you retreat into cliches."

"Point taken."

She pursed her lips, reminding him somehow of a small, Indian version of Beckett. The Mini Withering Glare.

He wasn't going to get past her. "You think I'm dodging the full implications of everything that's happening?"

"Of course you are. Otherwise you'd be unable to function at all. It is a coping mechanism. We all have them." She placed a small hand on his cast. "But you must remember, Rick, that the emotions will come up, and unless you deal with them honestly, they'll take control when you least expect it. This could truly hurt you, and perhaps the people around you."

He swallowed, and nodded, then set down his fork and cupped his hands over his forehead. "I'm afraid to hurt anyone as it is."

"That is a valid fear. You are a dangerous man, both verbally and physically."

"Dangerous. Wow." For better or for worse, that's what he'd wanted, and that's what he'd become. "Outside of a spy novel, that's not as fun as it sounds."

She nodded and said drily, "Living the dream, you are."

Setting aside that she sounded a little like Yoda, he added quietly, "I want to hurt Nieman. I know she's a victim. I know it. But I hate her. And I won't do it, I swear I won't do it, but I want to kill her, Doctor. She's already suffered so much at her own hands and others. But I want to punish her, I want to force the information out of her. It's all so _wrong_."

Brown eyes flashed thoughtfully as she glanced around the empty cafeteria. "So do I. Anyone would, hearing the things she's done, knowing the... despicable things she relishes. It takes all our courage to admit to a feeling in which she casually revels."

"She wants to turn me."

"I know. And this is where your natural perversity becomes your second best asset."

He sighed. "What's my first best asset?"

"Love. Your friends. Your family. You do not have to carry this burden alone."

"I really do _not_ want to bring any of them into this. They've suffered enough."

"They suffered when they thought you had been killed. You hurt them again when you retreat into yourself, suffer at losing you, at watching you in pain and alone, hiding behind a joke and a smile. You reject what strength they can offer."

He huffed. "Have you been talking to my daughter?"

"No. But I am familiar with your personality type, and learned a good deal about you from Detective Beckett, Captain Gates, and Jordan Shaw."

"I don't tend to show the same face to everyone."

"It is not necessary at this time that you do so, as long as _you_ are still at the _center_ of the faces you present to the world. You may not need to bring those you love into the intimate recesses of your mind, but you can still let them help you."

"What can they do?"

"They are all individuals. Let each do what they do best, what they long to do for you. They have already moved mountains to rescue you, to help you recover from the crash. It is clear that your father, even if he is distant, has some love for you, and he also has resources he may be willing to let you utilize. Your friends at the 12th precinct have skills and experience that you've begun to hone over six years, but in some aspects, you lack training. I've heard it said before, that you are a man with resources."

He looked at her, speechless a second. "You're on to me."

"I know you have a plan. In our debrief sessions I have seen it cooking away in your eyes, hidden between the words you say. But I don't know what it is, Rick. This leads me to believe it is perilous, and that it can backfire. I don't know if you've noticed this, but I'm a psychiatrist?"

"Well, yes." She was, in fact, head of her department. It was the case's urgency that had demanded her expertise. Both Kelly Nieman and Richard Castle presented unique – and difficult – challenges. Dr. Patel thrived on such things. "I've been studying and working with the criminally insane for seventeen years. And I do not wish you to become my patient in that capacity. So perhaps I might be just a little bit of a resource as well."

"Is that within your, uh, jurisdiction?"

Her long neck twisted in a fascinating mix of yes and no. "There are still two girls out there, that is, if they are alive. I know you are under the gun. But they are also, even more." She glanced away, then gazed at him fully, her eyes a liquid black, the red bindi dot shining above and between them, and he thought fleetingly of the balance needed between intellect and spirit, of which he often felt woefully bereft.

She said what he had been thinking, but had not dared to tell her. "I believe if you can lead Kelly Nieman to completely trust you, she will tell you what we need to know. And I think you cannot do that unless you show her your darker side."

Rick felt all the blood drain out of his face, and then a sudden rush of excitement, as if the fear of his own insanity had been flushed away by the possibility of victory. "I'd been thinking the same." He told her about his plans – to make a video "killing" Kayla Twimbly, while at the same time he had other plans, that very afternoon, for the press conference.

Dr. Patel clapped her hands and laughed. "Never let it be said that you are not a goddamned genius!"

"So... I have your permission to bend the rules a bit with Kelly?"

She nodded. "Just remember that every sound the two of you make is monitored and recorded – not limited to my perusal, but a legal record. I must recommend that you do not touch her, nor allow yourself to be touched by her, beyond the bounds that have already been approved."

Rick nodded.

"And if you are in trouble – if either of you gets out of hand - what is to be your safe word?"

Rick didn't even have to think it over. "Mephistopheles."

* * *

•

**June 18, 1pm (ish)**

Rick arrived at the loft. Kate was already dressed for the press conference, her hair up in a French twist, a floral sundress hugging her torso then flaring out at the waist, her collarbones graced with a pearl pendant. She had a cream linen jacket draped over one arm.

He said, "I'd love to kiss you but I had cafeteria stir fry for lunch."

She wrinkled her nose. "Thanks for not sharing."

He hurried to their room, threw off his clothes, took a minute-long shower (this was to get the smell of Kelly Nieman, stir-fry, and Charybidis Hospital off his skin), dried briefly, and stood at the sink. He'd already shaved that morning. While brushing his teeth, he scowled at his face and the lingering red scar on his temple. Kate came in ("Sorry to interrupt, but Martha's in the other bathroom...") and peed with a sigh ("Fourth time this morning!") then washed her hands, working around him. She took a towel off the rack and blotted the water droplets he'd missed on his back and shoulders. He caught her peeking from behind his shoulder and smiled at her sheer cuteness in the reflection.

Finished with washing, he said, "How much time do we have?"

From her perspective, he seemed in a surprisingly good mood after a session with Kelly. Kate wondered what had happened, but didn't want to ruin the moment, so she just set it aside. She said, "Aren't we perky."

He turned to her and she draped her hips against his. He hitched her skirt up and explored underneath, finding a pair of lace bootie shorts for which he felt particular fondness. His hand fondled her bottom, grinding her in closer, harder.

"Yes. We are." he grunted. "Perky."

"Ooh. More like 'springy'."

"Hope springs eternal." His towel fell to the floor as his knee pressed between her thighs.

Kate giggled. "Rick springs eternal." She slapped his ass slightly harder than was strictly necessary, and he yelped.

"Apples!"

She laughed. "I'll give you apples. Later. Right now we have to get moving."

"Peaches too?"

"Peaches. Apricots. Whatever you want, Lover."

He followed her into the bedroom. "Hey, Kate, how do you feel about bananas...?"

"Get dressed, Castle. I'll meet you down at the limo." 

* * *

Meredith arrived at the Twelfth Precinct at 12:59 p.m. Detective Ryan met her with a smile. "Thanks for coming, Ms. Castle." He put a hand on her arm, and she wondered if he'd try to stop her if she lost her nerve and bolted. Of course he would. _Holy crap._

She smiled nervously. "Just call me Meredith," she said. "Can you tell me, what is this about? Am I in some kind of trouble?"

He guided her into an interview room.

LT came up to him with a clipboard. Through the half- open door, the uni saw several people in the room: Tori, the technician; Castle's mom; a pretty young man with a makeup case; Esposito; and now this woman walking in wearing sunglasses, a brown wig, a trench coat, and a hat. She might as well have been wearing a sign that said "I AM IN DISGUISE." LT looked askance at Ryan.

Ryan took the clipboard, glanced, and signed off on the form. "We're at lunch. Hey, when the sandwich guy shows up, can you knock?"

LT nodded. "Yeah, so long as you save me a turkey on Dutch Crunch."

"How'd you know?" Ryan grinned. It was LT's favorite. Ryan always ordered an extra and saved it for him. It's the little things.

Meredith paused at the doorway. For some reason, something about Martha's demeanor scared her a little. Martha was...

Martha was _serious_.

"Hi," Meredith said in a small voice. "What's this about?"

Ryan closed the door behind them. "Have a seat."

Esposito said, "Thanks for coming. We need some help solving a case."

Meredith took off her sunglasses and hat. She'd pinned the brown wig in place securely. "Help with what?" Her voice shook. She watched a lot of crime shows, and sometimes '_We need some help solving a case'_ meant '_We've found evidence that will convict you of a crime, and you are now about to paint yourself into a corner.'_

She looked around, a little wildly. "Alexis told me Rick's still alive. I had nothing to do with..."

The dark-haired, pretty young woman with the remote interrupted her. "You're not in trouble, Ms. Castle. I'm Tory Ellis, video technician for the NYPD. We're going to show you some video. We need to know whether you can imitate a suspect."

Ryan passed Meredith a form and a pen. "Before we can tell you more, this is a standard nondisclosure agreement, plus there's a bit more verbiage at the end you should definitely look over. Feel free to take a minute."

Meredith huffed "Oh, I do these all the time, it's no big deal, I won't say a word." She flipped through the 2-page document, then signed and dated it in less than a minute.

Ryan said, "Look, are you sure you don't want to..."

"I'm fine."

Tori clicked _play_, and Meredith jumped back at an ear-splitting screech. Everyone jumped, and the makeup artist emitted a high-pitched squeak, then fanned himself. Martha patted his arm. "There, there, Harold."

Tory chuckled apologetically. "Sorry, thought I'd checked the levels," she blushed.

Esposito waved it off. "This equipment's older than I am."

Onscreen Meredith saw a red-haired woman of indeterminate age, somewhere between thirty and fifty, in a padded cell. She was screaming, her words a mix of English and the occasional Irish-Gaelic profanity. Meredith couldn't understand a word of it.

Meredith's eyes were like saucers. "Wha- wait. Whoa, what, who is that?" She felt acutely aware that the woman looked quite a lot like her.

Detective Ellis paused the recording. "She's gone by a number of names, among them, Dr. Kelly Nieman."

They watched the woman awhile longer, pacing about in her room, still in the jacket; there were other shorter clips:

• sitting, glowering, playing with her hair, mumbling or perhaps singing to herself.  
• Cuffed, at a table, begging for cigarettes.

• Hands free, pinching her skin back, pulling her jawline up. Meredith had done the same thing; although she was only thirty-eight, she'd already had microlifts and spent a little too much time and money applying creams and serums to keep her skin firm. Staring at a wall, the crazy woman mumbled, "You're an ugly little thing. Mirror doesn't lie."

•Scratching at her skin, with her nails, feeling her face, mumbling "I can feel it falling. I can feel it." Then casting about in pockets she didn't have, looking under her pillow and mattress. "I need a scalpel. I'm not done yet. I need the _scalpel_, Michael. You can't hide it from me."

• The last clip, punching and kicking at the padded wall, over and over until the orderlies came in, wrested her down, and gave her another injection. "_GODDAMN YOU, RICHARD CASTLE! YOU KILLED HIM, YOU MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD!"_

The last frame was a collection of stills made from traffic cams: Kelly Nieman getting into a town car outside her clinic in Manhattan, elegant with a sleek updo, high heels, and a trench coat.

"What the hell," Meredith breathed. "Rick _killed_ someone?"

"Self defense," said Ryan.

"Oh, my God. I never would have thought, even in self- I mean, even when he lost his temper, he never... " she stopped, visibly upset. "He must feel awful." Then her eyes grew wide. "I can't imagine what would have made him do that. He killed her?"

"No. Not her. Did he tell you about 3XK?"

"Was that the strangler guy in the news? A little, just said to make sure my apartment was swept for bugs, and if anyone seemed to be following or watching me, contact the police and call him, too. I wasn't in New York at the time Rick was accused, so it didn't really concern me."

Martha said, "It never occurred to you that when Alexis' father was accused of murder, you might drop in to offer either of them support?"

Meredith's voice was clipped, defensive. "You always act like I'm a burden when I am around, so, no. I did not."

Ryan reigned them in, "The 3XK killings are pretty much the tip of the iceberg."

Meredith gestured to the wild-eyed redhead on the screen. "So, who is she and what does this have to do with Rick?"

"3XK was also known as Jerry Tyson, and a number of other names. But it turns out that he was Rick's twin brother. He hunted Rick down, had been silently stalking him for over twenty years."

Meredith glared over at Martha, whose hands were folded tightly together on the table. She said, "Rick never even _told_ me he had a brother!"

"Richard didn't know. I didn't even know." Martha explained briefly

Meredith's expression softened. "Oh, Martha. I'm... I'm so sorry. This must be so embarrassing for you," she said.

Martha's expression was wry. "Something like that."

Ryan brought them back on point. "3XK tried to kill Rick on his way to the wedding, or possibly kidnap him. We don't know for sure what his intentions were."

"So what do you want with me?" Her eyes went wide. "You mean he was stalking me, too?"

Esposito said, "We need your help to flush them out. There are two girls out there somewhere, but no ransom demands, nothing. Nothing to lead us any closer to them."

"Wait," Meredith said. "This sounds dangerous."

Ryan pointed at the redhead on the screen. "This is 3XK's accomplice. She was in on the whole thing. We've got her locked up securely, so she can't hurt anyone else, but we can't divulge that to the public, because they were working with a network of kidnappers and serial killers. Castle's been trying to get her to talk, but... the results have been limited."

Esposito shifted in his chair. "We're sorry to ask you, Ms. Castle..."

"Meredith. And I don't see why you have to ask _me_."

"Because we're on a deadline. You're red-haired, roughly the right age range, 5'7, and 120 pounds, you have martial arts training, and you can act."

Martha snorted. "That's debatable."

Meredith glared at her. "_Really_?" she added to Esposito, "115 pounds."

Martha said, "It's all right, Meredith dear, we can pad your bra out a little, nobody will notice."

* * *

•

At 1:30 p.m., Castle and Beckett arrived at the 12th precinct and were met with hails and congratulations. Karpowski had just come back from a quick sushi lunch, swooped in and gave Kate a hug. "I'm so happy for you!" She smelled like wasabi, and Kate had to restrain herself from shrinking away. Rick caught her eye and gave her a sympathetic glance.

Beckett tried to shush her ebullient co-workers. "Look, it's too early even to know for sure. We shouldn't even have told anyone. Things..." she paused "Well, we're hopeful, but things don't always go according to plan." There were several knowing nods around the room. "So please, keep it under wraps until we're a few months along, okay guys?"

Captain Gates poked her head out of her office with a scowl. "Can you people keep the noise down a little out here? I'm on the phone to the FBI." She caught Castle's eye. "Oh, congratulations, you two, glad to see you didn't waste any more time." She went back to her phone call. "You nailed it, Agent Shaw, she's pregnant." She flashed a grin as she turned back into her office. "No pool that I know of..."

Kate groaned. Castle laughed. LT said, "They're in Conference Room B." He was carrying a box of delivery sandwiches.

Kate reached into LT's box and snagged a large cup with STRAWBERRY scrawled on it, and popped a straw in, sucking it down. "Thank God."

They paused before going in, Castle apparently steeling himself.

"Showtime," Kate said.

He nodded. "Yeah." They stepped in, and Castle grinned, amazed. "Wow. Meredith?" Ryan took the box of sandwiches from LT and started handing them around the conference table.

The makeup artist, Harold, was touching up the shape of Meredith's lip-liner, the rest of her face pretty much done. Meredith looked so much like Kelly Nieman they had to really stare to see past the makeup. "You guys did an amazing job."

Meredith said, in an almost perfect approximation of Rosie O'Shaunessy, "Ah, feck you and yer feckin' schemes, Richard Castle, and if this doesn't feckin' work, I'll hammer the shite out of you." She glanced over at Martha. "Told you so."

Kate gave her husband's ex-wife a mock-glare. "Get in line, Kelly." And then she smiled at Castle, radiantly. "No, make that "You'll have to go through me."

* * *

They sat in the conference room and Gates came in to join them, going over their plan for the press conference and for their safety from there out. Gates was actually relieved not to have to deal with the admin aspects of constant shuttling between one safe house and another. It was actually easier to have one patrol car posted outside the loft building, and everyone in one place. When lunch was finished and Meredith's makeup complete, they all filed out back to their stations and Kate went to the restroom, but Castle stopped a moment to speak with Tori.

"Hey, have you worked with cameras too, or are you purely on the analysis side?"

"Oh, my degree's in filmmaking. Anything with a lens. Editing. Storyboarding. Whatever."

Castle nodded. "Good. So you can help me direct a short movie? One minute or less."

She beamed, "Yeah! You mean outside work, or..." she nodded to the precinct in general.

"Oh, it's for work. Crimefighting stuff."

"Yeah. You have my email, just shoot me your proposal and I'll help you flesh it out."

Castle looked like a kid in a candy store. "Great! Oh, one more thing?"

"Hm?"

He handed her an old video cassette. She stared at it curiously. "VHS. 1989. Older than I am."

"Yeah. You have anything that'll play it?"

"I'll have to dig, but yes. Although you can expect substantial deterioration in quality."

"If you could transfer that onto a DVD..."

She looked skeptical. 'Dark Queen of Palladia.' This is for work too?"

"I'm not sure until I see it. I know it's a lot to ask."

"You'll need to cover the overtime budget and cost of rental for equipment."

"Not a problem."

"What is it? You mind my asking, I mean..." She glanced at the description. "I won't need eye-bleach? I have to be careful what I process on department equipment."

"No, it's not porn, it's just stupid. About on par with Master of Beasts."

"Master of Beasts? I love that movie!" She added in a whisper, "I have a pet ferret named Darius."

"I'll throw in a year's supply of ferret chow if you can get this done by tomorrow night."

"Deal."


	24. Chapter 24

**TooSoon Chapter 22**

**The Dark Queen of Palladia**

_Mother, you had me but I never had you, _  
_I wanted you but you didn't want me, _  
_So I got to tell you, _  
_Goodbye, goodbye. _  
_Farther, you left me but I never left you, _  
_I needed you but you didn't need me, _  
_So I got to tell you, _  
_Goodbye, goodbye. _  
_Children, don't do what I have done, _  
_I couldn't walk and I tried to run, _  
_So I got to tell you, _  
_Goodbye, goodbye. _  
_Mama don't go, _  
_Daddy come home. _  
_Mama don't go, _  
_Daddy come home...  
'Mother' - John Lennon  
_

**June 18, 7:30 pm**

Rick changed the outgoing message: "This is a recording. You've reached the Castle residence, and if you missed the press conference, we're happy to announce that we're not dead yet. All inquiries about publishing, public appearances, and interviews can be directed to Black Pawn at 212-555-PAWN. If you are a serial killer or kidnaper, please turn yourself in to the nearest police station. Anyone else, leave a message after the beep and we'll do our best to get back to you in a socially acceptable manner. Thank you."

Kate rolled her eyes. "Castle...!"

Alexis said, "Daddy, aren't you getting just a little bit overconfident?"

Rick shook his head. "Nope. The dominos are starting to fall."

Martha sighed. "We might as well put a banner out the window that screams 'We're here. Come and get us."

"I believe you took care of that with the megaphone the other night, Mother Dear," said Rick.

Kate poured herself a small glass of lemonade. She always found his lemonade a bit strong and tart, but it was perfect once poured over ice. "I'm gonna miss your whiskey sours a little," she smiled.

He shrugged. "You won't be alone. I won't be drinking till you can."

Kate wrinkled her brow. "But..."

"No. You're doing all the hard work as it is. Least I can do is not smell like a distillery."

Kate hugged him. Alexis murmured, "can you guys, uh..."

"Nope. Not getting a room right now. It's Movie Night," said Rick. "Alexis, would you be so kind as to put the popcorn on?"

"Aye, Captain."

The doorman rang, and Rick said, "Thanks, send them up." A moment later, he flung the door wide open for Tori Ellis, Ryan, and Esposito. "Come in! We just made lemonade." The sound and scent of homemade popcorn began to fill the loft, and Rick took a DVD from Tori. "I can't believe you turned it around so quickly."

Tori shrugged. "Ferret chow. An offer I couldn't refuse." She gave Rick a rather odd look. "Is, uh, your mom here?"

Rick nodded.

"I know you didn't ask me to..." Tori's face reddened. "But I, um, broke it up into chapters."

"Why?"

She chuckled. "You've never seen it?"

Martha and Jackson came down the stairs from the room they were now, uh, sharing. Her hair looked slightly mussed. Martha said, "Seen what?"

Rick turned to his mother and spoke rather apologetically. _"Dark Queen of Palladia."_

Martha groaned a little. "Now why would you want to see that?"

Ryan said, "Oh, I remember that. I saw it on Monstera Midnight Theater when I was a kid."

Esposito said, "You watched Monstera?"

"Who's Monstera?" asked Alexis.

"Think a cross between Elvira and the bride of Frankenstein, only hotter."

Kate quipped, "If you like hooters bigger than your head."

They fist-bumped, and Ryan continued enthusiastically. "Dark Queen's so-bad-it's-good. There's these black flying vampire manta ray things made out of garbage bags, and a sarcastic talking badger, and a hot redhead in a brass bikini..."

Rick choked, and Martha coughed discreetly. "That would be me, and the bikini was bronze."

"Sounds good to me," said Jackson.

Ryan didn't quite look at Martha after that. He said to his beer, "So, uh, that was you, Ms. Rodgers?" A pink blush crept up slowly from collar to forehead, like a tumbler filling with grapefruit juice.

Martha's blue eyes went wide. "Please tell me they cut the nude sacrifice scene out for network TV."

Ryan shook his head, his blush deepening to cerise. "It was cable."

"Dear God." She looked at Ryan sympathetically. "Well, the hooters were real, but you can comfort yourself in the knowledge I was wearing a merkin."

Castle, who'd been drinking lemonade, did a spit take then sprinted for a paper towel to wipe off his shirt. "Mother, _please!_ I can't unhear that."

Jackson went to the wine cooler and pulled out a bottle with a little leer. "Champagne?"

She waved it off. "I'd better stay sober for this."

Rick said, "I've never seen it. Have you, Mother?"

She huffed. "_God_, no. It went straight to video in the U.S. I have so many bad memories about that production... and I just _hate_ looking at my own work."

Alexis giggled. "Grandma, really? You're worse than that lady in Sunset Boulevard."

Martha said drily, "That woman was chewing scenery before I even cut my teeth."

Rick spoke to Ryan, Espo, and Tori. "There's lemonade there on the counter, beer in the fridge, wine in the cooler – help yourself."

Alexis had made a double batch of popcorn, divided it into two huge bowls. Kate melted the butter and left it warm in the pot for whomever might want it. "So just exactly how embarrassing is this movie?" she asked. Alexis rummaged for the printed red-and-white popcorn bags Rick kept around for movie nights with company.

Tori said, "I created a menu, Castle. So you can skip over the nude sacrifice scene if you don't want Alexis to see it."

Kate looked alarmed, and mumbled, "That's... pretty bad."

Martha was puzzled. "Actually I wore a body stocking the whole time. Otherwise I'd have gotten hypothermia. But really, I thought I'd wound up on the cutting room floor."

Rick shook his head. "That was in the European version. In the American version, there was some kind of lawsuit and it got put back in. I read it in IMDB."

"We'll only watch a few minutes. Just to get a feel for it." Rick looked around the room, arranging chairs around the TV. He said, "I really should have rented a screening room."

The ten of them pulled up various chairs (Kate lounged on the couch, slumped on Rick and likely to conk out at any moment).

* * *

The title sequence came up: a half-ruined castle in a rainstorm, the words _"Dark Queen of Palladia"_ in red letters, dripping blood. _"An Alan Smithee Production."_ (Alan Smithee being the pseudonym used by disgruntled directors to disown bad work). Then lightning, a triumphant cackle, and Martha Rodgers standing on the roof in a brass, no, I mean bronze bikini, waving her staff at the sky as lightning forked out of it. Martha had been about 45 when the movie was shot, was still very trim and utterly lovely, looking much younger than her years, helped along by a magnificent collection of elaborate red wigs and a soft-focus filter on the lens for all her closeups.

Jackson gave her a nudge. "You're even prettier now," he murmured. She blushed. Genuinely blushed, and leaned against him with a sigh.

Alexis stared at her grandmother. "Omigod, Gram."

Ryan chuckled. "You might want to avert your eyes for the next 93 minutes."

Alexis said drily, "There's nowhere safe to look anymore."

It was basic sword-and-sorcery: Handsome hero loses family to marauders, finds and befriends talking badger, meets beautiful princess. She is captured by evil queen who wants to rule the world, trek through swamp, armies mowed down, showdown on the roof, love conquers all, yada yada yada.

"It's so strange," Martha said. "The director and I had quite a falling-out because I left the production to pick Richard up in Dublin." She puzzled. "I was paid for the role, but I'd heard Jean Marsh was cast to take my place."

Rick said, "Well, she wound up in Willow instead. Maybe she didn't like the way she looked in a brass bikini."

"Bronze," corrected Martha, although at that point in the movie – where she's plotting the downfall of a rival sorcerer - she was wearing a black hooded cape, a green snakeskin halter dress, and a necklace made of fake kitten skulls.

Ryan was reading the IMDB listing aloud off his cel phone during a particularly slow part involving the princess swimming naked in a lake and being attacked by giant leeches with a strong resemblance to truck inner tubes. _"This movie doesn't even qualify for a Raspberry Award. The love scenes are embarrassing. The budget didn't cover erasing the strings out of the flying stingray vampire kites. The battle scenes are especially bad: The evil army appears to be the same cast as the good guys, only in different costumes and running in the opposite direction._ (Here Rick grinned and said, "Nailed it!")._ Dark Queen's sole saving grace is the criminally underrated Martha Rodgers, who uses her theatrical training – and other considerable assets - to grand effect as Queen Bodacia. While this is the equivalent of paratrooping Lady MacBeth into a high school production of Highlander, she's still worth watching, and you may just wear out the tape when you get to the – uh – climax of the film at 86.27.33."_

Martha grabbed the remote from her son. "They told me they weren't going to use that scene."

Rick snagged it back. "Mother, you couldn't pay me to watch it. In fact, you'd need one of those eyelid-prying devices in Clockwork Orange."

"I second that," said Ryan. His face was now the color of a tomato. He was a veritable fruit-basket of bashful hues. "You know, we really should get going..." he began.

Rick said seriously, "No. There's something I want you to see."

Kate yawned, "I'm sorry, but this had better be worth staying awake for."

"Oh, it is. I think... yeah, if I'm in the movie at all, we're coming up on it."

Onscreen, the hero (played by the now openly gay Deke Hansen) and his princess (played by the now-Oscar-winning MaryBeth Henningsley) were slow-dancing in her father's stone castle banquet hall, surrounded by forty or so barbarian soldiers in faux bearskin loincloths and rusty-looking armor. Two of the soldiers were tall, stringy young men, playing a dice game in bright torchlight. They were extras, so they had no spoken lines, but their faces were fairly vivid. One was brown-eyed, a little bit baby-faced, with a beard and short, ratty dreads. The other was a tad bigger, blue-eyed with barely a peachfuzz goatee and a crooked grin. Kate recognized Rick first. "That's you, Castle."

Rick nodded. "Yeah. That was me." His teen barbarian self was obviously having a blast. The paused frame caught him slamming the dice cup down onto the table.

"You were such a … kid." Alexis breathed.

"You were adorable!" cried Kate. "Look at you!"

Ryan punched Espo in the arm. "He's skinnier than me."

Alexis had an odd look on her face. There were very few pictures of Rick before he got famous, and they tended to be out of focus. He had no school yearbooks, and Martha was a terrible photographer. ("It's not my fault, he was always _moving_.")

In this film, Rick was quite skinny and a little younger than Alexis, fresh-faced and still coltish. She said, "Wow, Daddy, you hadn't grown into your nose yet."

He reached over and touched Alexis' button nose tip with a gentle finger. "I doubt I ever will, Pumpkin," he smiled ruefully. He un-paused briefly, then paused again. The camera had zoomed in on the scene. Now there were two others showing more clearly in the frame. Barbarian Rick drank from a dented tankard. Next to him, the bearded boy pulled a laughing wench into his lap. She was round-faced, cute but not exactly pretty, with smooth black hair, pronounced cleavage and crooked teeth. She was a bit older than the other two, in her early 20s. All in all, their collective moment of greatness lasted about 12 seconds.

Martha gasped. "Oh, my God. I know him." Her voice shook. "Is that _him_?"

Rick nodded. "He went by Declan Connor on set. But his given name turned out to be Michael McGowran."

Kate had been a bit dozy, but now she sat up, fully awake and tense. "That _is_ Tyson."

"Yes. And the girl is Rose O'Shaunessy. Became Kelly Nieman. This was a non-union shoot, and she assisted with makeup on the extras. Mostly blood spatter."

Several people said, "Holy shit."

Esposito said, "Aren't they wearing a lot of makeup, though?"

"No. After the film shoot was over, I met up with them in Dublin. They weren't much different aside from the costume stuff." He paused, trying to decide how much to say with Alexis there. "They cleaned up a bit, but at the time, they basically dressed like, I dunno. Wanna-be hippies with a streak of punk. They seemed so... _harmless_. " He shrugged helplessly. He'd liked Declan so much. The betrayal, which seemed so senseless, had shaken him to his core. After everything... it still hurt. He decided not to mention that at the time of filming, Rosie and Michael had already committed several murders. Alexis and Martha didn't need to know that. He still had trouble really believing it.

Rick added, "Tori, now that we have clear shots of them in their youth... do you think we can find anything on them through facial recognition?"

Tori said, "Could be. Just make sure you flag me for other angles. The tape's really old, and a bit dark, so it's hard to get anything really clear. Toward the end it starts to really fall apart."

Martha had been unusually quiet, staring at the screen. "I mean, Richard, that I _know_ him." Her eyes were tearing. Jackson produced a clean handkerchief from his shirt pocket, and she repeated "I _knew_ him."

Castle turned to look at his mother full on, tilted his head, and listened.

"He was a Stage Door Johnny. He went by Oliver McCree. I mostly saw him in New York and Seattle, sometimes in San Francisco."

"What do you mean, 'saw him'?" said Jackson quietly.

"Oh, he was just a sweet young man. He said he traveled for his work, in computer sales, and tried to catch me whenever we were in the same town. Sometimes he'd bring flowers, or a bottle of champagne." Her lip trembled. "I didn't recognize him. It never occurred to me... how could I not _see_?"

Kate said gently, "Context is everything, Martha. You couldn't be expected..."

"He was so _hopeful_!" Martha quavered. She took a long look at the three young people laughing together on the screen. She took the remote from Rick gently, and rewound to the beginning of the scene, then paused it on her sons again. "And so funny. Polite to a fault, witty. He reminded me of you, Richard." She sighed, stifling a sob. "We went out for coffee one night, and he knew every movie and TV show I'd ever appeared in. Showed me his scrapbook. I didn't even remember the first few times I'd signed things for him over the years." She sighed. "He hadn't made much of an impression until I saw the scrapbook. I was so flattered."

"How long did this go on?" Rick's voice was barely a whisper, his face white, thinking of Tyson in the same room with their mother, thinking of what the bastard could have done to her. Kate was close to him, and she could feel him shaking all over. She got up silently and went to get him a glass of water.

"Years, Kiddo. _Years_. There were long periods where we were out of touch - our paths just didn't cross. I finally met his wife – he introduced her as his _new_ wife. It was last summer at Cal Shakespeare when I was doing the Scottish play. She met us for a drink at the Claremont. We talked all evening."

"You think his wife might have been the same as the girl in the movie?"

"Maybe. Hard to say. Eileen... no, Colleen. Such a lovely woman, a bit older than he, I think, but beautiful and very bright. She worked in the medical field. So polished, red hair the same color as mine... I mean my natural strawberry of course, not this auburn..." she fingered her brightly dyed tresses thoughtfully.

"Scottish play?" said Esposito.

"Scottish play." said Ryan. "MacBeth."

"Don't say that name," said Martha anxiously.

"MacBeth," frowned Kate, deep in thought. She handed Rick the water glass and he took a grateful sip, not even having noticed that his mouth had gone dry.

Martha said, "I never even really noticed Michael on the Dark Queen set. I mean, I was happy to see you having a good time with the other cast, but it never occurred to me he was the same boy who..." she took a sip of lemonade, then rubbed her forehead with shaking fingertips. "God. I should have watched this long ago."

"I didn't want to look at it either. I can't tell you how many times I've thought of throwing it away."

Kate squeezed Rick's hand and spoke to Martha. "Let's see if this has anything else to tell us... is that okay?"

Martha nodded, staring at the screen, the two young men laughing over dice and a sexy girl. "You were both so..." she pressed fingers to her lips and blinked back tears.

"I hate what Tyson became, Martha," said Kate softly. "But your sons were beautiful."

"He was already planning to kill me here," Rick pointed at the screen. "I wonder why he didn't."

Alexis's eyes were somber. "I think he liked you too much. I think you caught him by surprise and he lost his nerve."

Rick shrugged. "Maybe. Shall we move on?" he looked around. "All right now, brace yourselves for the horrific Garbage Kites of Doom."

Really, it was worse than anyone could possibly have imagined. They all had to laugh at the occasional glimpse of Teenage Barbarian Rick amongst the other soldiers, running around in a furry loincloth, defending himself against menacing sheets of shiny black plastic flapping over animatronic frames. Finally, Esposito said, "You know, you've been holding out on us, Castle. You can't act, but your fight skills in the movie are not half bad."

Ryan added, "Yeah, you almost totally killed that garbage bag."

Rick mock-bowed. "I contain multitudes." They all had a good laugh over the scene where the Queen stands atop the waterfall and mows the barbarians down with her staff of lightning. Rick and Declan/Michael/Jerry flailed around, flopped down twitching in the mud, and wound up covered in fake blood, but continuity was off, so sometimes the blood went away and came back again, or their "corpses" would twitch back to life in the next camera angle. "They say a brave man dies but once..." Castle murmured.

Ryan said, "I'm beginning to think you're a cat. Ooh, look, you're alive again! Now you're dead. Don't move... wait for it... he's alive? Aww, dead."

Espo nudged him. "Special place in hell, dude."

They watched the army re-animate as zombie slaves for the Dark Queen, with Rick and Declan staggering along, hollow-eyed, obviously trying not to crack up. Declan actually doubled over laughing but covered it with a spasmic zombie flail. Then the camera cut away to Martha intoning to a henchman, "You idiot. I need virgin blood for this spell. IF I CANNOT HAVE THE GIRL, THE GOAT WILL HAVE TO DIE."

Rick skipped over the Nude Sacrifice scene, just up until the end where it backfires (the goat apparently having been around the block a time or two). The Dark Queen is engulfed in her own garbage bag monster minions and thrown off the roof of the castle to her doom. The zombie barbarian horde is magically returned to life. Hero and princess kiss. Badger reunites with badger girlfriend. The End. Cue credits.

* * *

Rick stopped play, making a mental note to check the credits later.

To Martha's bittersweet surprise, everyone stood up and applauded her.

She gave a bittersweet bow and sighed, "We take the work where we can get it." She walked over to Rick and embraced him. "Thank you, Kiddo. I really don't know what to say."

Kate and Alexis shared a glance, then Kate silently shooed their guests out, sensing that the mood had shifted to something very personal. A moment later, Rick looked up to find nobody in sight but Kate, watching him and his mother in this awkward hug. She said, "Goodnight, Martha," and hugged the two of them briefly, then slipped away to the bedroom. Martha continued to lean on Rick.

"I'm so sorry, Mother," he whispered. His throat ached. "I killed him. I killed all of him, the good and the bad."

He could feel her trembling. "No." she sobbed briefly. "You did what you had to do. And in some way, he must have felt... felt that he was doing what he must do. He was sick, Richard. Never forget that. I don't think either of us could have helped him, in the long run." She tilted her head back and looked up at him, then moved out of his hug. "But I'll be honest. There's a part of me, a very small part... I _am_ angry with you. It's not rational. I was so disappointed with you when I came to pick you up at Dublin Hospital. That was just youthful, stupid experimentation, and I never knew how close you came at that time to dying. But this is different."

Rick nodded. She went on. "You're not the tender-hearted boy I thought I knew. He's gone. You killed that sweet boy as well. My gentle, dreaming son. I'm not even sure who you are anymore."

Rick pressed his lips together, holding back tears, and nodded. She could see it there, an anger and bitterness he always, always hid, that only poked out as the occasional jab or sarcasm, that he cloaked in humor and padded in money and compliments. Because she'd been all he had for so very long, and he could not afford to lose her, still he strove to be the good son she wanted. It was, in his mind, never quite enough from him, and never enough from her. That anger showed a moment, naked, for once, for the first time since she'd rescued him, sick and disoriented, from that Dublin hospital. "You helped," he rasped.

Her hands were steepled flat in front of her mouth, almost as in prayer. "I did. You needed a father, I gave you boyfriends. You needed a mother, I gave you drunken nannies who lay on the couch watching soap operas. You needed a home, I gave you boarding schools and miserable little camps. You needed my attention, I kept it all on myself. I made too many mistakes." She sighed. "I am so, so terribly sorry, Richard. I've made too many mistakes. I'm never going to be perfect. May I make more?" She smiled tremulously.

He nodded painfully and they clung to one another again. "Mother, if you can forgive me, I can try to forgive myself."

"Of course, Richard." She took his face briefly between her hands. "You are a good man. Michael's sickness was not your fault. Please believe that."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll try."

"I expect that will come slowly," she said. "We can't just wash our hands of guilt."

"Out, damn Spot," he said.

Martha's eyes went wide. She let go of Rick and went for the remote. "I need to see... how do I get to the menu again?"

He pointed out the button. "Here. What is it?"

"Close your eyes, I don't want you to watch this scene." She jumped to Scene 23 with the naked goat sacrifice (the goat had actually been an adorable baby, and even plunging her knife into a stuffed-animal approximation had been a bit unnerving). "Richard, have a look at that IMDB review. The one where he talks about Lady MacBeth. No, get your laptop, I can't read that little screen."

Rick grabbed his laptop. Martha said, "What's the time, in the review, that he likes to watch over and over?"

"86.27.33."

"Good, now don't look at the screen unless you really wish to see me nude and covered in fake goat blood."

Rick closed his eyes and stuck his fingers in his ears for good measure, softly singing "La la la la la I'm not listeninnng!" to himself. Martha had to smile. Her little boy hadn't completely died away, after all.

She stopped it at 86 minutes. The Dark Witch Bodacia had slaughtered her goat atop Powerscourt Falls, drunk the blood, smeared the "viscera" all over her body, and was now cloaked again, fake rain pouring down on her, talking to her zombie barbarian army and garbage-bag-kite minions (who would, in short order, be defeated by the combined strength and innocent love of the hero, the princess, and the magical badger).

Bodacia gazed out over her army, magical staff in hand. Rick couldn't pick himself and Declan out of the crowd - they'd done many takes - but he knew they were there somewhere. "You_ have a great destiny before you. I love you, my sons, as much as any mother can. Go forth and prove yourselves to me, and we shall walk in greatness together at last." _She held the staff aloft, then smote the ground, which shook and rumbled.

"Play it again," Rick whispered, watching the counter.

Martha handed him the remote. "My hand's shaking."

He advanced the recording carefully.  
86.27.33. _"I love you, my sons." _

Martha stared back at her own younger face on the screen, the chilling, beatific gentleness she'd radiated in the middle of a mad scene. "I love you, my sons," she murmured.

Rick was on the phone to Tori. "Hey, sorry to call you so late."

"It's ok, I was just petting my ferret," she said, and immediately regretted how that sounded.

He didn't even smirk. "There's a reviewer on IMDB, on the Dark Queen page. His screen name's TheG00dTw1n. Is there a way to get an IP address where the posting originated?"

Tori said, "Yeah. We might need a subpoena, but if there's probable cause..."

"Oh, there's probable cause, all right," he said. "You ready? All one word: zero zer numeral one n."

"Do you need this done now?"

"Is it possible?"  
"I'll get it rolling," she said.

"Thanks. I think the writer was 3XK."

"Oh, my God. Yeah. Right away."

"Call me when you find out, one way or another, all right?"

"Definitely. 'Bye..."

"No, wait. Are you still up to do the Kayla Twimbly movie tomorrow afternoon?"

"Yeah! No problem. I have the green-screen equipment they recovered from your hotel room, and some of my own as well. Kayla Twimbly's up for it, and Gates has signed off as long as she's present for the taping. We're a go. Get some sleep."

Tori hung up and smiled to herself. On the one hand, she was a single woman, lived alone with a pet ferret, and was on call to do all kinds of weird internet research at all hours of the night. On the other hand, she was a single woman, lived alone with a pet ferret, and was on call to do all kinds of weird internet research at all hours of the night. Exactly what she wanted. It sure beat her previous gig making colon care infomercials. She loved law enforcement.

* * *

June 19, 3:24 a.m.

Rick had gone to sleep with his phone tucked into his hand, and it buzzed him awake to find himself in a cold sweat, shaking off a nightmare. Kate stirred but didn't fully awaken.

He rolled out of bed, hurried into the bathroom, and shut the door. "Tori. Anything?"

"Yeah. The IP's located at an industrial park in Silicon Valley."

"California?"

"Yeah. Santa Clara. The FBI's on their way."

Rick felt a rush of excitement, then fear. "They should be prepared for anything. Do they have a bomb sniffer..."

"Relax, Castle. Jordan Shaw's supervising by remote, and I'm sure they'll take extreme precautions. With any luck, we should hear back in an hour or so."

"Good. Keep me posted."

Rick signed off and leaned against the wall. The night had the humid warmth of an impending thunderstorm, and he felt sticky. He sighed. No, what he really felt was dirty. And not in a fun way.

* * *

June 19, 3:35 a.m.

Kate awoke, her bladder full. Castle's side of the bed was empty and cool, and dimmed light spilled underneath the bathroom door. He was crying in the shower, quietly. Kate didn't realize it until she sat down to pee and heard the hitch in his breath, and realized that in the low light and noise from the rushing water, he probably hadn't noticed her. She debated whether to give him privacy, then heard him knock something over and curse, then saw his vague form slide down the wall. She didn't say it too loudly, giving him the choice to pretend he hadn't heard her.

"Rick?"

"I can't shut it off," he moaned.

She opened the shower curtain gently and stepped in, not even bothering to remove her panties and T. She wrapped her arms around him as well as she could. "Castle," she murmured. "Rick, it's gonna be okay." The water was fairly hot; she realized he was trying not to hurt himself, but to comfort himself. Give the man credit, he had survival skills ingrained.

"No." His hands were over his face. "It's too much." He didn't mean the water, but she adjusted the stream anyway, dialing the heat and pressure down a little, so that it felt like a gentle, warm rain rather than an assault on the sense.

She stroked his head, the short bristles like wet velvet, the grain definite, a whorling cowlick at the crown near the back. Her pressure grew firmer, massaging his skull: temples, back, ears, forehead.

"I can't unsee. Can't unfeel. Can't undo."

"No, my love. You can't." Her fingers stroked hard, the back of his neck, his powerful shoulders, shaking with sobs.

"How do you live with it, killing someone?"

They'd had this conversation before, and that didn't matter. "It takes time. And it's hard, Castle. Sometimes I have to take it out and look at it, talk about it. And then when I'm ready, I put it back away again. For next time."

"It still hurts." He spoke through gritted teeth, through physical shooting pain in his clenched arms, in the hands he'd used to beat his own brother. It hurt. He wanted to do it again, to get the pain out.

"Me? You know it does." He'd held her through nightmares, talked her through flashbacks, walked her through panic attacks. He knew. She was his road map through hell.

"He was my _brother_."

"You wanted a brother. That must be so fucking hard."

"I wanted a brother. Yes, and he just, he just..."

Rick's body curled further into itself, rocking slightly, the muscle between his shoulder blades like planes of locked steel. Kate was thankful for their truly immense water heater. She said, "I don't think this shower's helping you." She plugged the drain and let it begin to fill, then switched off the shower mechanism. She lay back against the sloped side of the tub and stuck the bath pillow under her neck. "Come here," she said.

"No."

"Rick. Babe. Come on, just, come here. Lie here with me. You can go back to being miserable by yourself when I fall asleep on you."

He sighed to the insides of his knees. She smiled ruefully. At least the physical therapy was working on his leg. "You've been working hard. Two weeks ago, you were barely able to bend your knee."

He didn't move. She added, "This pain you're feeling. It's real pain. It's a real injury, and it's hitting you, body and soul. Is that true?"

Small nod.

"So," she whispered. "It's work to heal your soul, too. Don't hate yourself for something you were forced to do. Don't add insult to injury."

"Cliche." He slumped over on his side then scooted up between her legs, the water supporting much of his weight. "I'm afraid to hurt you," he murmured, his head on her chest.

"You're not squishing me. I'm fine," she kissed the top of his spiky head. She was still wearing the white T, her nipple half-peaked, forming a soft mound under the thin fabric.

He put his broken hand over her breast, water draining and swishing easily through the 3D printed mesh of his plastic cast. He didn't want to be distracted by her tits at that point. She seemed to understand that he wasn't copping a feel, just finding something to hold onto. He said, "That's not what I mean."

"Yeah, I know." She wrapped a leg loosely over his waist, a familiar, casual embrace. "You probably will hurt me, Rick, at least emotionally. I know you wouldn't do it on purpose anymore though. I'll probably hurt you again, too, at some point. I'll do some stupid thing. But you know what?"

"What?"

"When the wheels fall off, we'll just make spare tires out of whatever giant leeches happen to be floating around. We'll just keep rolling."

"That's like something I'd say," he mumbled into her left breast.

He felt her chuckle beneath him. The water swished. It was delectable, like he was inside her, but not sexy-like. He was with her. He was with _Kate_. The world could not be so bad, if only he was with Kate.

She agreed. "So it is. You're in my head all the time now. You were helping me find you, even buried six feet underground. You're my muse, too."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Sometimes I have to say 'Shut up, Castle' even when you're not around."

"So do I. Only it's 3XK. Or whatever other little demon decides to run riot."

Kate stroked the slowly-relaxing muscles down his spine, as well as she could reach. He felt her chest muscles moving slightly under his cheek, heard her steady heartbeat (_bless you, Kate, bless your beating heart..._). She took a breath. "I never would have thought there'd be a bright side to killing someone, but at least I sort of know how you feel," she said. He stiffened. She added, "I don't mean about it being your brother. The other part."

Rick nodded. "Every time I close my eyes, I see his goddamned face. It changes, but it's always him. Or Kelly. Rosie, whoever."

"That's funny, because most of the time, all I see is you. Only in a different way."

He looked up at her then. "You used to hate that."

"No, only when my eyes were open. Before I got used to you."

"Fortunately I grew into my nose," he grinned.

She caressed his shoulder. "So, can I go back to sleep and dream about you, now?"

He sat up and pulled the plug, and they climbed out. He helped her peel off her wet T and panties, tossing them into the tub until morning. They they dried one another in the low light, slowly, an exercise in gentle affection as much as practicality. She peed (giggle: "_Again_!?") and when she came back to bed, he was there, warm and waiting. He held up the blanket then smoothed it over was a flicker of lightning, then thunder rumbled in the distance. "I smell rain," she murmured, and spooned into him.

He inhaled deeply, his nose buried in the crook of her shoulder. (_Thank you, nose!_) "I smell Kate."

Naked as babies, they slept right through the storm.


	25. Chapter 25

**Too Soon Chapter 25 – Meanwhile **

_And if the dam breaks open many years too soon _  
_And if there is no room upon the hill _  
_And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too _  
_I'll see you on the dark side of the moon. _

_The lunatic is in my head. _  
_The lunatic is in my head _  
_You raise the blade, you make the change _  
_You re-arrange me 'til I'm sane. _  
_You lock the door _  
_And throw away the key _  
_There's someone in my head but it's not me.  
Brain Damage - Pink Floyd  
_

* * *

**_Tiffany_**  
Tiffany Ross sat quietly in her cute little garret on the top floor of an old row house in North Dublin. She had no idea where she was – even which country she was in – but she was pretty cozy, all things considered. The couple looking after her were older, chubby, friendly-looking people. They fed her six times a day. With little exercise, she'd been putting on weight with alarming speed, and they didn't even blink when she complained, just provided her with sweats - and sweets - in progressively larger sizes. She had no idea why she'd been kidnapped. It wasn't like her mom had any ransom money.

The woman, short and cute with watery blue eyes, was named Miss Krystow (privately Tiffany thought of her as Miss Crisco... she was droopy-round and very pale). Whenever Tiffany asked, she always said, "You were in danger, dearest one. We brought you here for your own safety. Papa and I will look after you until coast is clear." She had some sort of accent that Tiffany couldn't place. Maybe Russian.

"Then why am I locked up?"

Murphy was a big man, the remains of his hair a faded greying ginger, his cheeks pink, his eyes brown and beady. "For your own safety," he rumbled. "No way of knowing who's out there." He wasn't quite as warm-fuzzy as Miss Krystow. He sounded sort of Scottish to Tiffany.

"I'm sorry. I don't mean to be rude, but it's really boring here!" She had no access to TV or radio or internet, and the windows were shuttered, only letting in the faintest of gray light. But there were at least a couple hundred of books: all mystery and romance novels. Tiffany wasn't much of a reader, but there was little else to do. And in each romance novel, the beautiful, slim and feisty heroine was conquered by the smoldering love of a big, brave man whose initial attraction she resisted, and in each mystery novel, the sleuth nailed the perpetrator in the end. Tiffany rather liked this orderly little world, but she missed home: her mom, the condo with the pool and jacuzzi in the courtyard, their three cats. Taking their Corgi mutt for walks to the park. She'd been just about to start veterinary assistant training. "When can I go home?"

But they were blandly firm. "Believe me, Sweetheart. You don't want things too exciting." Murphy backed out and closed the door, locking it behind him.

Tiffany didn't know how long she'd been there when they brought her a black-and-white kitten to play with. The kitten had tidy little white toes and formal-looking tuxedo markings. She named him "Fabio" after the romance cover model. From her rather extensive experience with animals, Tiffany could tell that Fabio was about seven weeks old. She found herself watching the kitten's growth, day by day, and using it as a sort of clock.

She fed him regularly, played with him, groomed him, and talked to him. Fabio never said much back. In his estimation, Tiffany was rather short on conversational material.

•

* * *

_**Small**_  
In a soft red world, a little being was swimming, tethered by a thread not much thicker than a human hair, and from that tether, life flowed in, growing incrementally hour by hour, day by day. Once a spirit outside time, now attached by that little thread, now its own tiny clock began to beat like a heart. A thought that didn't quite yet have a mind to think it, the little being sang a joyful song that didn't yet have a voice.

"Fwimming, fwimming, fwimming. I'm fwimminnnng...!"

That little being had almost nothing to do with Jerry Tyson, and everything to do with Kate Beckett and Richard Castle. That little being was literally swimming in love. And Kate Beckett, who had returned from her "vacation" or "honeymoon" or "family emergency leave" or whatever the hell it was, was swimming in something else: paperwork. And honestly, as she sat there cogitating over casework and gestating and preparing her depositions and following up on court appearances, the tedium was something of a relief.

If anyone knew she was catching naps in the supply closet, they never let on, though the pillow and blanket should've been a giveaway.

•

* * *

_**Betsy**_

In the three-plus weeks since finding Pillow Case Rick, Betsy the Wonder Dog had been working her waggy tail off. Mo took her out daily, sometimes to two or three sites. In between? Car rides. Naps. Things to smell. She was busy, and needed. Nothing made her happier. But a part of her was sad, too. Most of what she found was centered around Pillow Case Rick's evil brother and the evil lady, too. They'd left a trail of death and destruction all over the Eastern Seaboard. Betsy knew too much about tears, about bad smells and sad smells and, more and more recently, evil smells. She didn't know there were other dogs, looking all over the country, down into Mexico, up into Canada, from New Hampshire to Miami, from Virginia to New Orleans, in Buenos Ares and Dublin, Galway and Cork, Paris and the ancient lavender-scented back-roads of Provence, Sao Paulo and Cartagena and in the jungles outside Cabo San Lucas for traces, traces, traces, sometimes decades old. But Betsy was also looking for something very special – two young women. And she found hits in a gas station in South Shore. In a parking garage in Queens. Then nothing. This was on Betsy's mind, and her nose... well, the wind was on notice. Betsy was ready.

•

* * *

_**Michael**_

Somewhere in Hell, Michael Allen Jerald McGowran Tyson, aka 3XK, was surrounded with rope. And none of it was the right color, and the rope wound around him, faceless and cold. He couldn't fight or run or scream, and it hurt so very much, until he could finally feel it, feel what he had done as his eyes and lungs burst. Until he could finally realize he was sorry. That there was pain as great as his. Greater than he could even have imagined. Over, and over, and over.

•

* * *

_**Rose**_

In the Charybdis Psychiatric High Security Ward, Dr. Rose O'Shaunessy was crying in her sleep, clutching desperately at a blanket that didn't feel enough like a doll. In the dark place behind her eyelids, her mother crawled on the floor, begging. "Don't hurt Rosie. Don't. Please."

Da towered over Rosie, his face like stone, talking to Mum over his shoulder. "I knew you'd turn on me if you found out. I just assumed you were too stupid to suss it so early in the game."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I didn't see anything."

"Didn't see anything where?"

"ANYWHERE!" Mum was hysterical now. "We didn't see anything, did we, Rosie?"

"No, Mummy." Rosie was lying.

_She'd been playing in the garden whilst Da was out on a call. Da always turned the compost heap. But, digging for worms to feed the birds, Rosie had found something near the bottom of the pile, a round thing, hard, stained brownish. At first she thought it was a ball, until she turned it over and saw the eye sockets. She brought it to Mum. "Look," she said, enchanted. "A little Halloween skull." Mum had snatched it away, her eyes wild, then smiled a fake smile._

_"Rosie, that's lovely. Thank you. Now, I have a special game I'd like to play, and I need your help. We're going on a little trip, and we have to pack. Very quickly." She'd hauled Rosie into her room, grabbed a small suitcase, threw in a few changes of clothes and Rosie's favorite doll, and a copy of Goodnight Moon. Then Mum had packed a few of her own things in the same small case, and they'd been halfway down the walk when Da drove up in the car. Rosie couldn't remember, until that point, ever having been afraid of him. But her mother had wilted like a wax flower under a butane torch, and Da had smiled coldly, his hand clamping Rosie's arm as he swung her up against his shoulder. "I've got you, my little lass. Let's just go back inside," he'd said gently._

And now here was her mother, crawling on the floor. "I don't know what you're talking about. We didn't see anything."

Da stalked away from Rosie, still holding the knife. "Well, you're gonna see something now."

Rosie watched his arm slash down in a long, slow arc over her mother. She couldn't scream. If she screamed, she would die. She shrank back into a corner, into a tiny corner of herself, and disappeared, a diamond too small to see, pressed hard and hidden beneath a thousand miles of blackness.

The orderly gave Dr. Patel a call. "Looks like Dr. O'Shaunessy's catatonic again."

Dr. Patel sighed. She wondered what Castle had said to Dr. O'Shaunessy, so quietly that they didn't pick it up over the mic. She hoped he hadn't triggered this latest bout.

•

* * *

_**Petros**_

When you arrive at the Pearly Gates, you're alone. Everybody dies alone, on one level. But then there's another level. Just as Mephistopheles has infinite parasites on his tongue, with infinite nasty little biting mouths, so are there infinite pearly gates, and infinite Lights, and infinite Petros. E pluribus unum. E unum pluribus. Ad infinitum.

Infinite souls upload to their own cloud banks to have their deeds assessed by iSoul1.2 (which was once and evermore shall be in beta). But there will always be Infinity, and her Plus One - her date for dancing and champagne at the wedding of impermanence to eternity. I think we can also safely assume there's an open bar at the reception.

And so Petros had time to play a game of Crazy 8s with Mephistopheles. You really can't cheat at Crazy 8s, although it was Meph's nature to try, which Petros actually found endearing. The sheer consistency of evil makes it sort of predictable. Whereas goodness is sometimes a lot trickier to see, meaning that the road to Hell really should have been equipped with one of those parabolic mirrors that lets you see when you're about to turn a corner.

"Diamonds," said Meph.

They played on diamonds for a while. Petros said, "So how's Michael Allen McGowran, better known as Jerald Tyson, better known as 3xK?"

"Sucks to be him," said Meph, smiling evilly. That was the only kind of smile Meph had.

"Too bad," said Petros. "Kid never had a chance."

"Everyone gets a chance." said Meph. "He blew it."

"As soon as he's done feeling the suffering he inflicted on others, he'll be forgiven," said Petros serenely.

"Not by the ones left behind."

"Time is separation. Once they're beyond time, everything heals."

Mephistopheles looked at his watch. It had a million faces, and none of them were smiling. "You just keep spouting the party line, Pete. Skunks."

"What?"

"I'm changing the suit to skunks."

Petros looked down at the top card. It was an 8 of Skunks; this particular skunk sneered at him, and scratched at a patch of mange on its flank. He sighed. A tiny mushroom cloud of phosphorescent funk spurted up above the stack of cards. He laid down an 8 of hearts over it.

"Skunks can't be a suit. You have your choice of hearts, diamonds, spades, and clubs. I'm going with hearts."

"But I like skunks."

"You don't actually like anything. You're just being perverse."

"All right, clubs." Meph pulled a club out of his ass and tried to hit Petros with it. He was blasted back against a cushy wall of cloud. Cards flew everywhere. Petros shook his head. "Unassailable good, remember?" He laid down a 3 of hearts. "This is turning into solitaire."

On the ground, amongst the pavers and shreds of cloud, Mephistopheles grunted, "Can't blame me for trying." Tiny, tarlike hands reached up from between the pavers, stretching like gum, and coated the demon in black creeping goo. He dissolved with a satanic guffaw. "Hurts so gooooooood!" he crowed, as his body hissed, bubbled, and seeped back down to the pit from whence it came.

•

* * *

**_Beckett_**

Dr. Burke got a call at four o'clock in the morning from his emergency page system. "A Katherine Beckett is on the line. She has an emergency."

"Put her through," he mumbled, half-awake. He sat up in bed, propped on pillows. His wife wore earplugs and a sleep mask, so it wasn't a problem. "Kate. How may I help you?"

"I'm so sorry to wake you, Dr. Burke. But you did say to call. I hope it's ok."

"Tell me what's happening with you."

"It's not me," she said. "It's Castle. He's having nightmares."

"Did he ask you to call me?" They'd discussed this, but Kate repeated it. "Castle doesn't want to 'see' anyone; he's already debriefing with Dr. Patel. But... I can't wake him up."

"What's going on?"

"Well, he's been talking in his sleep."

"Has he moved? That could mean night terrors. If he gets violent, keep your distance."

"He's not violent, just... weird. He sat up straight, said 'Hurts so good!' and lay back down again, laughing. It was creepy."

"What's he talking about?"

"First he was talking about skunks. Now he's barking. No – howling. No. Baying."

"Baying like a hound dog at the moon in June? I know I left my ukulele out here somewhere."

There was a long moment of silence, and then Kate heard a gentle snore from the other end of the line. "Dr. Burke?"

•

* * *

_**Maybe Betsy, but Probably Rick**_

Betsy was running in her sleep. She dreamed Pillow Case Rick was running with her, only he was a little boy smelling like leaves in spring and the plastic-wrapped chocolate marshmallow egg that she'd once gotten sick on when she found it on the lawn at the park. They were hurrying through city streets. She was late for school, feeling so small, trying to catch the bus and running as fast as she could on short little puppy legs. She was with him, looking up at things like the mysterious swing-down door of the big blue U.S. Mail box where Mother let him slide the envelopes in. Where did the envelopes go? Mother picked him up, he opened the heavy, creaking metal door, and the envelopes were swallowed whole by the rectangular mouth with its deep, metallic, croaking jaw. And Mother always seemed anxious about them. "Off go the bills with a wing and a prayer," she'd smile. Like there was something in them she didn't want to send away. For Betsy's part, almost every day a Bad Envelope Person came to Mo's house, and put new envelopes with scents from a_ll the hell OVER THE PLACE_ right into the box on the porch. Betsy thought this the height of bad behavior. Sometimes when Mo or his wife opened the envelopes they would get all mad and scared and yell at each other about money. Betsy just hated the bad envelope mail person and the nose-burning spray from that one terrible time when she tried to bite him for making Mo's wife, Jamilah, cry. Bad, bad envelope spray man and his mean pieces of paper.

She growled in her sleep. Then she went back to waiting for the bus with tiny Pillow Case Rick and his mother, whom she couldn't see in her mind's eye, but who definitely smelled like a redhead. Yes. Some humans dream in black and white, some dream in color. Some remember nothing, some remember everything. Betsy dreamed in a range of black and white, and she dreamed in smells.

She stood at the bus stop with him, wagging a tail she couldn't feel. Watching him read it at almost-four-years-old: the B16.

"B-1-6" said the little boy.

"B-16. That's right, Richard," said his red haired mother. She was so young, so beautiful. Just a blur. Betsy saw him taking a giant step up into the bus and getting to put his own coins in the slot, clink clink clink. She saw the old bus driver in his neat uniform and cap, smiling from beneath his big mustache, giving Rick one of those little enamel tie pins: "Safety first, little man."

In dreams it's ok to take a puppy on the bus. She was struggling to climb up on the slippery, chrome-tube-edged seat to stick her head out the window. She couldn't tell if she was tiny Richard himself with his big blue eyes, leaving a nose-print on the clouded bus window glass, or herself, leaning her head out to catch the elusive scent of the missing girl, her jowls flapping in the rich, nuanced city breeze. They came to a stop, and the little boy got off the bus with his mother. Dream-puppy-Betsy followed them. And what Betsy smelled was something like the preschool smell that Mo's daughter came home with five afternoons a week, only Mo's daughter had sunscreen and no peanut butter. The faint menthol scent of finger paint, mac-and-cheese with cut up hot dogs, the corner where someone (not him) peed, the Lysol, the metallic smell of sweaty monkey-bar climbing, the sunflower left in its vase a day too long, the teacher's perfume, the little boy named Mikey whose weird light-haired mother hit him when he didn't want to go home. Poor Mikey. He seemed really familiar. Richard said, "If you want, you could come home with me and my mom. She's pretty. We could watch cartoons and eat ants on a log."

Michael. It was Michael who peed in the corner.

And of course, to top it all off, Betsy wasn't wearing any pants. Typical school nightmare.

Maybe she'd grow up to be a writer after all, if only her paws could type.

And maybe Rick would find the girl.  
•

* * *

_**Dr. Burke**_

In the morning, Dr. Burke awoke with his phone to his ear, and no idea why. His last call had been from the overnight answering service, who had a record of Kate Beckett-Castle calling him at 4:23 a.m. He tried calling her, but she didn't pick up, because she was crying in the shower. People kept telling her that stuff like this is normal.

•

* * *

_**Small**_  
Kate's tiny passenger doubled in size, flexing tiny stem-cell buds that would someday be arms and legs, sprouting a tiny tail that would become a spine, then apparently fade away to nothing. Fwimming in thircleth.

•

* * *

**_Mo_**

Betsy was asleep on the kitchen floor while Mo rubbed her belly with his foot and read the newspaper. There was a slightly damp circle along one fold, where Betsy had picked it up from the porch and carried it in for him. Why she loved the newspaper delivery lady but hated the mailman, he'd never know.

He read out loud to her and she twitched in her sleep with a soft groan.  
**"RICHARD CASTLE ALIVE.** Mystery author kidnapped by 3XK serial killer, multiple accomplices still at large. Two arrested at press conference..."

Mo grinned. "That was a hell of a thing, Bets."

His phone rang, "Caller ID blocked." He answered it on a whim, hoping for extra work, hoping it wasn't a bill collector.

"Hello, uh, my name is Richard Castle, I'm looking for Mohammed Atah?"

"Speaking. Wow, hey, Mr. Castle, I wouldn't have thought to hear from you!"

"Please, call me Rick. Or Richard. Or Castle. Just no Mr."

"Well, all right then, if you'll call me Mo."

"Mo." The writer sounded pleased. "I saw you at the Twelfth Precinct yesterday. I just wanted to thank you and Betsy personally for your part in helping me..." he hesitated, "uh, in rescuing me. Her name's Betsy, right?"

"Yeah."

"I hear she has quite the nose."

Mo laughed. "You could say that. She's been a busy girl lately."

Castle could tell from his tone that all was not completely well. "You've been busy too?"

"Yeah. Normally she's not a body sniffer, but she's got a good nose for cold trails as well as hot, and we've been all over the country, last two weeks."

Atah didn't talk about the things she'd found, the things he'd seen. Horrible artifacts from lives ended in cruelty and despair. It had been hard and sad for both of them. He had friends play hide and seek with her, so she could find live people who loved her.

Castle said, "I wonder – I mean I know you're busy – would you like to meet up with me for coffee? Or, I dunno... a dog biscuit?"

"Uh..." Betsy must have noticed his change of mood. She got up from her snooze and shoved her nose under Mo's elbow, looking for all the world like she was listening in. Mo humored her, setting the phone on speaker mode. Castle's voice made her tilt like the dog in the old HMV ads. Mo took a sip of coffee. "I'm not sure what you're lookin' for here, Rick."

"Sorry, I'm- ok, what I'm really wondering is if maybe Betsy can help me find someone? I mean, I can pay, you know, whatever your rate, expenses, whatever..." his voice trailed off, but there was a desperation in it. Mo thought of Castle as he'd first seen him, sitting broken and filthy in the lady detective's arms, high as a kite, barely clinging to reality but taking a moment to be kind to his dog. Mo knew Betsy's judgment of character was impeccable, and that she'd taken a shine to Rick and Kate Beckett-Castle-whateverthehellnameitwas. He also knew that his overtime had paid a lot of bills, but that he and his wife hadn't taken a real vacation together since the baby was born. A little extra cash would be a welcome thing. Mo turned to the dog, whose tail was now thumping on the kitchen floor. "Hey, Betsy, you want to find Rick?"

She was at the door barking before he even had his shoes on.

•

* * *

_**Martha  
**_Her hand was shaking. It had been weeks since the crash, and she still awoke from nightmares of life-or-death battles and endless searches, lost little boys, menacing Stage Door Johnnies lurking in the shadows backstage... Sometimes Jackson - Alexander - was there, and when he was, she was surprised at his steady, drily humorous, comforting presence.__

In this particular instance, however, Alexander was off doing whatever the hell he did, and she wanted a drink, desperately. Even though she knew she wasn't an alcoholic, and she didn't really need it to get by, and the shaking was nerves, not withdrawal. She was fine. Fine. Fine. Fine. _Fine_.__

She found her phone in the blackout-shaded darkness, and touched the speed dial. He picked up, answering sleepily. "Jim Beckett."

"James. I'm... sorry to disturb you."

She heard the anxiety in his voice. "Is everything all right? Katie..."

"Katherine's fine," Martha said. "Me, not so much."

"What's the problem?"

Martha hesitated. "I know you're going to think this is silly."

"I've heard a lot of silly things. I never would have expected you to say anything silly between the hours of 3 a.m. and 5:30 unless you were on Good Morning New York."

Oh, he'd seen that little debacle. What, twenty years ago? She blushed. "I was wondering, if..." she paused. "If you'd ever consider taking me to one of your meetings."

"We can catch the Tribeca 7am if you like."

"_Seven!?_"

He chuckled. "Sorry. So uncivilized. Let me look at the schedule... 8 am, Westside Episcopalian Meeting Room."

"I think I can make that."

"Good. I'll swing by in a cab and pick you up."

"It's not that I'm an alcoholic, I just..."  
"You don't have to figure it all out, Martha. Especially not before noon."

•

* * *

_**Elise**_

Elise Mowrey had, for a moment, thought she was coming out of a nightmare - grabbed in a mini-mall parking lot, drugged and thrown into the trunk of a sedan. She awoke, and a red-haired angel of a woman stood over her, beaming.

"She's coming around." The cool hand on her cheek felt motherly. "I'm Dr. Nieman. What's your name, Sweetie?"

"Elise." Her mouth was dry. Dr. Nieman gave her a sip of water. She looked around; although she was on a bed, she wasn't in a hospital but rather a sort of curtained alcove in what had to be a very large, echoing room. She lay on an old-style cast iron frame bed, with a faded chenille spread and some patchwork quilt peeking out from beneath that. It was vintage shabby chic, somehow feeling more like a set than a bedroom.

"You've been out for a while, Elise." Dr. Nieman checked her eyes with a scope light. "No harm done, I think. Do you know what day it is?"

"Uh, Thursday?"

A tall, handsome man came to stand by Dr. Nieman's side. He had brown eyes and thick, wavy hair, and there was strange swelling to his face, as if he'd had some kind of operation and the inflammation hadn't gone down yet. Elise was reminded of her own sweet-16 nose job, noticing just the very faintest bruising below his eyes. He reached down and ran a gentle finger through Elise's blonde hair, tucking it back behind her ear. "No, it's Friday. May 9."

Elise struggled to sit up. "Oh, my God, I'm missing rehearsal..." She realized, dumbfounded, that she was strapped down to the bed.

"That's the least of your worries, Elise."

"Who - who are you?" she breathed.

"My name's Jerry Tyson," he smiled. And he gestured across to three other men, who appeared from out of the shadows beyond a curtain. "These good people will be looking after you until I kill you."

He spoke to the three men. "See that you get Castle's key and carry out the plan, no matter what happens to me. I want him running scared. I want them all chasing their collective tails. I want to make them look like the morons they are."

"I don't see much use in that if you're dead," said the one with the thick glasses (later known as Bob).

"I'm not going to die, and it's what we agreed to. Go back on that, and you might be the ones running." The three men blanched, white as poached chicken.

Jerry walked away from the bed, leaving Elise panting with fear. She looked up at the doctor. "You're a woman. How can you do this?"

Kelly Nieman smiled coldly. "I believe in equal opportunity." She glanced over at the three nondescript men. "You have your instructions, and you can take full advantages of the perks until then. Just remember, any DNA you leave on her is your problem, not mine."

Elise lay back, wild-eyed, listening to Dr. Nieman's heels clicking away into the distance, then the whoosh of elevator doors opening and closing. _Ding. Whir._

She looked at the three men standing over her. They introduced themselves quite politely: Bob Jones and Bill Smith and Ronald (_"Call me Ronald!"_) Brown. They were so nondescript as to be nearly invisible to a girl like Elise: all of them late-forties, average height and build, greying, thinning hair, puffy skin and a bit grooming-challenged. She was struck with the realization that they had been watching her for weeks – at the laundromat, on the bus or the metro, at the post office and coffee houses, even the beach. Because they were ordinary and seemed shy out in public, she hadn't noticed them. Being young, blonde, athletic, and long-legged, she was sadly accustomed to rude attention from strangers. Handsomer, louder, stupider men hit on her all the time. These three men – whom she had trouble telling apart - had just glanced over, then glanced away, unwilling to expose their lust in public, hunting her, learning her routes and routines. They'd swiped her out of the parking lot at a dance supply shop on Long Island. She wondered if anyone even knew she was gone. She'd been known to cut a class or two.

Ronald said, "We knew by your walk. You're the one."

"What do you want from me?" she quavered.

"Oh, we want you to dance for us. And model. We have all kinds of sets. Clothes and stuff. It'll be fun."

Bill said, "We're filmmakers. Photographers."

Bob said, "I'm just a hobbyist." He snort-chuckled.

They let her off the bed, and she explored the studio. She was still a bit dizzy from the drugs and had trouble balancing; Bill took her arm and led her around. He smelled somewhat metallic. No. It was antifungal cream. He probably had athlete's foot.

At the end was a small stage, its curtains long gone, and above the stage a hand-lettered sign:

"SOUTH BRONX DANCE COLLECTIVE!"

It was almost as large as a high school gym, and clearly underground, with high clerestory windows that had been boarded up. The floor was old and a bit scratched, but fairly smooth and swept clean. The walls were rendered colorful, even chaotic, by graffiti.

Ronald pointed out a ballet barre, still affixed along one wall, backed with a mirror. "We got you the best mirror we could get. So you can keep an eye on your technique. We'll be having shoots almost every day, so you'll have a good reason to stay in shape."

"Every day?"

"You're gonna be here for a while."

_"Can I talk my way out of this?"_ she wondered. She could hear the sound of buses and the occasional car horn from a street level ten feet above her. "I'm not a model," she said.

Bill stared at her. "Of course you are. We picked you."

There was a huge rack of costumes, and an intriguing pile of props, and on the stage a backdrop rack contained roll after roll of different scenes.

They had so many costumes, and there were drapes - filmy, gossamer drapes, lacy drapes, velvet and brocade and crisp, spare linen. They made it clear that she was expected to model the costumes and drapes for them. Sometimes she wore full costumes as she danced; sometimes she posed in drapes; sometimes she wore only shoes, or gloves, or a mask, or ropes. Of course she balked at first, and Bob, the quiet one, picked her up by her _head_, surprisingly strong, her skull pressed between his hands, her arms and feet flailing. "If you give us any shit, I'll kill you," he said.

"Okay. Okay. Don't..." She could barely speak, his hands clamping on her jaw. He set her down and said, "I think you should wear the blue dress first." He grabbed it off the rack and handed it to her.

She stood there crying, holding it. "Is there a place to change?" she whispered.

"Nope, just go ahead."

Ronald had a camera out. He photographed the whole process, taking off her street clothes - ("Panties too.") - then putting the blue satin dress on.

"Now dance," said Bill. She was too afraid to move, but too afraid not to. She danced, jerkily at first, then fell into it. They put music on. _Waltz of the Flowers._

As the days went on, most often she wore nothing, or just panties. The stale, temperate air of this basement was actually comfortable compared to the sweltering humidity of New York in late May. She told herself she'd get used to it. She told herself that she was biding her time, would make a break when it was safe. But they never left her alone, although when they hurt her, they gave her a little time to clean up and recuperate. There was a shower, with a bottle of Pert All-In-One and a safety razor and some dollar store shaving cream. They wanted her smooth for the photos. Sometimes one of them would come in with her. Sometimes they let her be, just watching.

They all seemed very much alike, but soon she was able to differentiate them much better. Bob seemed to have a nearly inexhaustible sex drive, and although he didn't say much, he could be really rough. She hated him the most.

Bill was twitchy, and tended even to giggle, like he was just playing around, like he didn't really want to hurt her but oops, there it was. "Sorry. Oh, come on, was that so bad?"

And Ronald? The man would not shut up. He talked, telling her everything he was doing, and always the question, "Do you like that? Do you like that, little girl? How about this? Do you like this? I know you like it. Smile."

He expected her to say yes, so she lied, because she didn't want him to hit her anymore. She just wanted to dance. They couldn't keep up with her. They couldn't touch her when she danced. Once she rolled herself in the Spanish Web, up by the ceiling, and refused to come down. They came with a ladder and she started gnawing and tearing at the silk. She thought it might be nice to fall and break her neck. But the silk only gave partway, and she swung down despite herself, crashing into the aluminum ladder, nearly sending Ronald flying. That felt good, until he recovered. "You think that's funny, little girl?"

It wasn't funny.

Her captors took pictures of her in sets, fronting painted backdrops: a Victorian boudoir, a Regency ballroom, a Tudor garden, a Roman bath. A great many of those pictures were nude. She could do nothing about this. When she resisted, they tied her up. They did things to her, sometimes together, sometimes one after another. Often they photographed or recorded what they did. They told her they were creating art: art of the moment, art of the human transcendence of adversity. They weren't artists. They were just consumers, vampires. They couldn't create a fucking thing. But they developed a following for the series of photos they put out on the internet: a small, faceless, fragile woman at the mercy of three men. Some folks will pay to see such things.  
•

* * *

_**Arlene**_  
If Arlene Perlmutter had known what Elise was enduring, she would have been furious. She would have switched places, because she was built for that purpose, offering a sexual and emotional outlet to unlovable men. But she couldn't know, could she? Arlene was too busy trying to support poor Sidney, who had his hands full with more autopsies and bits of bodies than any human being should have to deal with in a year, let alone a month. The NYC coroner's office was taking in overflow body parts to identify from all over the country. Lanie Parish was clearly feeling worn down by the sheer volume, and Sidney Perlmutter himself felt the strain as well. He was so lucky to have Arlene to talk to. She had a magical way of just listening, with that expression of kind concern on her face. He was lucky to have her. They were solving cold case after cold case, or at least linking them, and he felt grim satisfaction, watching the dominoes fall. 

* * *

_**Lanie**_  
At night, Lanie Parish sometimes woke sobbing, and Esposito held her. "Shhhh. Shh. It's ok, Chica. It's ok."

"I've never seen it like this, Javi. There's so _many_. Fucking bastards."

"Yeah," he whispered, and pulled her closer, stroking her curly hair. "I know."

•

* * *

**_Elise_**

Elise spent most of her time inside her own head, retreating in further and further as their violations went deeper and deeper. From the conversation amidst the three of them, she knew they were growing tired of their doll, with her tears and bruises and balky refusal to smile for the camera. After she was used up, they'd give her to 3XK, and he'd do the dirty work of killing her as planned, in his signature style. And if he never showed... of course there were contingency plans with Kelly, the red-haired lady who'd been there when she first awoke. At any rate, she overheard the phrase "This will go over big with the snuff market," and her heart froze.

She kept dancing.

•

* * *

This was VERY difficult to write, and I don't think I would have been able to finish it without the help of an imaginary dog and an imaginary baby. Even in the darkest stories, there is the possibility for joy.

Home stretch, peeps. Thank you for reading!


	26. Chapter 26

Special thanks to Ron, who beta-read this and quelled my lingering doubts. :-)**  
**

* * *

**Too Soon, Chapter 26 **

**Keys**

_Who broke the window  
Who broke down the door?  
Who tore the curtain  
And who was it for?  
Who heals the wounds  
Who heals the scars?  
Open the door, open the door._

_Won't you come back tomorrow?_  
_Won't you be back tomorrow?_  
_Will you be back tomorrow?_  
_Can I sleep tonight?_

_Tomorrow - U2_

* * *

**June 19, 3 a.m.**

Meredith, who was still "in jail" but no longer cuffed, dozed in the 12th Precinct's holding cell, cramped and miserable. In the next cell over, a man slept, snoring loudly. Meredith sighed, turned over, and thought, "I won't be getting an Oscar but this is the best goddamned performance of my entire frickin' life." The outer door opened, and closed softly. A small man in a NYPD uniform approached her slowly, and she didn't even hear him until he was at the door to her cell, key in hand, his face shadowed in the low light.

"Kelly," he whispered. "Dr. Nieman, wake up. It's Walton. I'm here to get you out."

Meredith sat up and rubbed her eyes sleepily. One false eyelash fell off, and clung to the heel of her hand. She blinked at the man. "It's about feckin' time," she rasped.

"I had to wait for the guy to take his lunch break to put him out. Man, the rumors were flying – Michael arrested, you dead, the other way around..."

"All designed to flush us all out, I'm guessing," she said.

The guy in the next cell stopped snoring and rolled over in his sleep with a snort, now facing them. He smacked his lips a few times and mumbled, "Honeymilk."

"So, what's the password?" said the fake cop.

"Do you have the key?"

Walton waved them and thrust one into the lock. "Drugs'll wear off in a few minutes, we gotta hurry. Password?"

Meredith's voice shook. "Password?" She cleared her throat and chuckled nonchalantly, "Which one?"

"Come on," he hesitated, troubled. He pulled his gun and trained it on her. "What's the password, Doctor? If you _are_ Kelly?"

In the low light, he could see that she was afraid, really afraid. Kelly Nieman wasn't afraid of much of anything.

Walton heard a metallic click behind his ear, and turned his head just enough to see the muzzle of a service pistol trained on his temple.

Detective Javier Esposito said, "Password's 'Hands in the air, scumbucket.'"

The previously-snoring guy in the next cell sat up and chuckled. "Good one, Bro." He looked at their newest suspect, swung off the bench, and stepped out through the unlocked door, cuffs in hand.

Detective Ryan, looking ragged in a shaggy wig and distressed, filthy denim jacket, glanced over at Meredith. "You're free to go, Ma'am."

"Oh, thank God." She was out of the 12th in a flash, accompanied by a plainclothes detective who'd been assigned to protect her. Once in the cruiser, she texted Rick: "I'll be staying in the Presidential Suite at the Manhattan Paradiso. Expect the bill, but you'll still owe me. BIG TIME."

* * *

**June 21, 8 a.m.**

A block from City Bark Cafe, Betsy picked up a scent for Pillow Case Rick. Her tail already actively thrashing, it accelerated to a sort of light-speed blur, and she hauled on her harness.

"Betsy. Heel," Mo admonished. She whined and did the Dance of _"Why Can't We Just Go, Okay Dad?"_ but she stopped, sat at his side, and he patted her. "Good girl." They moved forward in a more orderly fashion.

City Bark Cafe fronted a playground with a dog park. It was a tony, pet-friendly establishment in which Mo had occasionally indulged with Betsy. There were primarily small, apartment-sized dogs and the occasional rescued greyhound, aka "couch potatoes on stilts"; the dogs were expected to be well-mannered and trained to get along with others, or were summarily ejected from the premises. Richard Castle, in a newsboy cap and sunglasses, was waiting for them at the cafe's shade-dappled outdoor seating area, and with him sat an older, white-haired man, also in hat and glasses, with a salt-and-pepper goatee. Mo thought he looked a bit familiar, but couldn't place where. He looked up and waved briefly and went back to typing on a battered laptop.

Betsy only had nose for Rick. She let out a joyful bay and scampered around on the sidewalk, and Mo had to make her heel again. He felt oddly jealous. The only people she made such a happy fuss over were family – him, his wife and daughter, and Betsy's old trainer. Rick arose from the table and shook hands with Mo. Then he bent with care – favoring a sore back, Mo thought – and cradled Betsy's floppy jowls in his large hands. Betsy yammered joyfully, and Castle echoed her in meaningless lovey syllables which graduated into more coherent phrases such as "Aren't you a good girl. Aren't you beautiful? Yes you are. Yu-essss you are." He scratched down along her back, she flumped over onto her back, he found her sweet spot and she wiggled her leg in ecstasy. Mo had to admit, the man had the touch.

He glanced up at Mo with a lopsided grin. "Thanks. I needed a dog fix." They sat down, the waitress arrived, and they ordered breakfast. Second breakfast, in Mo's case, with a cronut for him and a nice chew-biscuit for the Dog of Honor. Castle introduced the other man as Jackson, and they all made small talk a few minutes. When their food came, they finally settled into discussion, with Jackson typing notes. Mo listened carefully to Rick's proposal, and said, when he was through, "Twenty thousand dollars?"

Rick nodded.

"What if something happens to me?"

Rick said, "I'll have an agreement drawn up making sure your wife and child get a yearly stipend until your daughter's 21. Fifty thousand ok?"

"That doesn't seem like much, considering what I already make."

"I mean per year."

Mo had been in the middle of a sip of coffee. He coughed a bit out through his nose. "So I'm worth more dead than alive?"

Castle shrugged. "Not at all, but guilt is expensive."

Mo glanced anxiously at Jackson. Jackson raised an eyebrow. "He's good for it."

Betsy usually sat on Mo's feet, but her weight had eased off. He peered under the table. She had done the Betsy Under The Table Stealth Begging Move – slyly placed first one paw, then the other, on Rick's lap, her nose on her forepaws. He was giving her tiny bits of bacon, her tail doing only a slow wag, careful not to give herself away. She looked at him sidelong from Rick's knees, guilty as sin. Mo scowled, then laughed up at Castle. "What, were you two separated at birth?"

Castle said, "Woof," and shot Mo a lopsided grin.

Jackson snorted a little. "So, we'll see you tonight in the Bronx?"

"If you have the signed agreement, yeah."

Jackson said, "I'm sending it off to Rick's lawyer now. He'll look it over and make sure everything's in order."

Rick's attention was on the dog, who had managed to drape herself halfway into his lap. "Con artist," he whispered. She snuffed and wagged her tail.

"_Good boy, Rick. You are a very good boy."_ It wasn't just the bacon.

**•**

* * *

**June 21, 10 a.m.**

Castle arrived at the hospital and checked in as usual. Dr. Patel met him, her dark eyes serious. He said, "Any change?"

The doctor shook her head. "Nieman woke up screaming about four a.m. And she's been unresponsive ever since. I don't know if the drugs are losing effectiveness, or if it's a result of your movie-making experiment."

"God, really?" Rick said. He felt a sort of panic. What had he done? "Can I see her?"

"This is all an experiment," Patel said. "We are going to make mistakes. I sanctioned your project. It's not your fault." They met up with Minsky, Rick signed in, and they walked through a set of hallways with which Rick was unfamiliar. Behind some locked doors he heard screams, or weeping, or babbling. But mostly silence.

Rick said, "I need her talking."

Patel nodded. "I know, and it's worth your trying. But keep in mind, this could make her worse. She's locked herself down again, and it may take time to find the key – if there is one."

She stopped at a door unfamiliar to Castle and examined the chart. "She's still near catatonic."

"I'll see what I can do."

"But in this case, the orderly stays in the room. I'll be observing on camera."

"Good idea." He clutched his Beckett-style latte and spoke to Minsky. "Ready."

Rose was hiding under the bed. He smiled bitterly to himself, thinking, _"Let's check for monsters. Oh, lookie there."_ The orderly stepped in and locked the door behind them, then held the latte for Rick as the writer lowered himself down onto the floor: harder than you'd think, due to the whole wrist-and-ankle problem. Rick lay his cheek on the cool, mostly-clean linoleum tile, and spoke to the curve of her back.

"How's my muse?" he said. She didn't move. "I brought your latte. Just how you like it."

Nothing.

"Rosie, are you okay?" Just saying that felt strange, as if by going through the motions of caring, he began to evoke actual concern for this fucking monster. She looked small and childlike, but gradually when she raised her head to look at him, her face seemed ancient and stony.

She spoke in a small voice, like a child's. "I want tea."

"You want tea?" Rick looked up at the camera in the corner of the ceiling. "I think we can get you some tea."

"Milk and sugar."

"Milk and sugar," he repeated.

He said, "Knock knock." Rapped softly on the bed frame, too.

Pause. "Who's there?"

"Richard Castle. May I come in?"

A little nod. He hitched himself under the bed (thankfully, no bat shit was involved aside from Rosie's own special brand of crazy.) Still on his belly, he cradled his forehead on his left forearm. There wasn't a lot of head room.

Afraid to trust that he wasn't being manipulated, he used his Dad voice. "What happened, Sweetheart?"

"She's dead," Rosie whispered. "You killed her."

"I did," he whispered. "I did it for you. So we can be together."

"Because you love me."

He didn't hesitate. "Yes."

She let go of her clutched, bundled blanket, and reached out to touch his cheek. "You should have killed me."

He said, "I'm not like the others. I'll never hurt you. Never."_ No matter how much I might hate you._

She was silent for what seemed like an eternity, but her fingers clung to a fold on his sleeve, playing with a little creased edge of fabric. It reminded him a bit of Alexis when she was four, cuddled up and sleepy at the end of a long day, twirling a lazy finger in a lock of hair, too tired to talk.

"Rosie," he said. "I'm too old to stay on the floor like this much longer. You want to come out now?"

She nodded. He hitched himself out backwards, and she scrambled out after him. She looked around the room, confused, then stared angrily at the orderly.

"Who's that?"

"I'm Mr. Minsky," said Minsky. He seemed a bit surprised, having seen her every day like clockwork for three weeks.

Rick said, "He's ok, he lives here. He wouldn't dream of hurting you, eh, Minsky?"

Minsky said kindly, "I'm here to keep you safe." He gestured lamely with the latte, hoping he wouldn't need his taser.

Rick pulled himself up and sat on the narrow bed, patting the space next to him. "Rosie. Come here?" It was a friendly invitation, not an order.

Yet he was surprised when, still clutching her blanket, she clambered up and sat across his lap, her knees tucked up to her chest. Her greying red hair hung lank and greasy around her face as she tucked her head under his chin, her cheek against his lapel. He stroked her hair but couldn't bring himself to kiss her head. He felt her rocking slightly, and matched the gentle rhythm. She felt exactly like a sick child needing comfort, and his stomach clenched uneasily, torn between compassion and revulsion. He forced himself to relax, his right fingers over her left hand. His left arm cradled her, and he made his hand cup around her: first the palm, then the fingers, and his thumb hovered a moment before he made the commitment, squeezing her shoulder gently. "You're safe," he whispered. "I promise."

He felt her shuddering sobs, and said not a word to quiet them except, "That's right."

Minsky stared at them, entranced, as the latte went from hot to warm to tepid to cool over the length of at least twenty minutes, maybe more, the serial killer curling into a smaller and smaller ball, keening; the writer supporting her gently but ready to let her go if she resisted. Castle's expressionless face gazed into a dark nowhere, and Minsky couldn't help but wonder what he was thinking. Castle was thinking about Betsy, about Alexis, about Kate, about unconditional love, and how incapable he was of feeling it in this instance.

As the sobs gave way to sniffles, Rick pulled a hanky out of his blazer pocket and wiped Rosie's tears, then folded it and placed it very gently below her nose. "Blow, Sweetie," he said. Why did he want to cry? Why was there a lump in his own throat? _Fuck. I hate this woman. But I can't hate this little girl._

She blew her nose. Her body spasmed, and she spoke almost inaudibly. "I didn't mean it. I didn't want to."

Rick massaged little circles on her sharp, bony back. She hadn't been eating enough. "I know," he murmured. She felt his voice rumbling in his chest, a warming burr.

"We couldn't stop."

"I don't suppose you could," Rick said, although he wasn't sure now whether she was talking about herself, about her father, about Michael, or about himself.

There was a soft knock at the door. Another orderly entered, pushing a little cart, followed by Dr. Patel. Rosie stiffened and stared at the doorway. "It's all right," said the doctor quietly. "I've brought tea. It's Irish Breakfast."

Rosie remained curled a few more moments, then raised her head and slowly smiled at Dr. Patel. "Milk and sugar?"

Dr. Patel chuckled. "Milk and sugar. I'll have to put them in for you, just say when."  
She actually had a pretty tea set, made of melamine, that was more-or-less unbreakable. And a bendy plastic spoon.

Rosie looked at Rick and said, "Would you like some tea, Mr. Castle?"

Rick's wall crumpled. He knew what to say, having spent an untoward amount of time in his young fatherhood sitting at Alexis' little tea table, wearing a tiara, apron, and pink sparkly lipstick, with his knees crammed up to his shoulders. "That would be delightful, Miss O'Shaunessy."

Rosie rolled off his lap and sat up straight, watching Dr. Patel. "You may have some tea, if you would like, Miss..." her forehead wrinkled. "I am so sorry, have we been introduced?"

"You may call me Miss Patel." The doctor, who also had children, gave a proper curtsy. Her saree swished. It was pink, with gold and green embroidered flowers at the hem.

Rosie said, "That's a pretty dress." She looked down at her own pink scrubs and frowned a little, brushing floor-dust off her thigh. "I like purple better, though.

Minsky looked down at the untouched latte in his hand, shrugged, and started drinking it cold.

Dr. Patel said, "I think we can arrange for you to wear purple. Would you like that?"

Rosie nodded. "Not too much milk, just a little. Two sugars, please." She sipped her tea. "Thank you, Miss Patel. This is delicious."

"You are very welcome. How do you take your tea, Mr. Castle?"

"One sugar, no milk, please." The doctor handed his cup to him – noticed his hand shaking a little - and gave him an encouraging smile. He sipped. "Thanks. I mean, Thank you, Miss Patel."

Dr. Patel poured herself a half-cup of tea, filled the rest with milk, and added three teaspoons of sugar. She giggled apologetically. "I like it sweet." She had adorable dimples. "May I sit?" Rick was almost pathetically glad she was there.

Rosie patted the bed beside her. "I'm so sorry, it seems we have no chairs."

Dr. Patel plumped down beside Rose, not crowding her, but not too far either. "This is fine, thank you. Would you like me to arrange a chair for your room?"

Rosie nodded. "That would be very nice, thank you."

They all sipped their tea again, having gotten through the formal niceties of childhood tea party time. Rick said, "Next time I'll bring cucumber sandwiches."

"I like marmalade on brown bread," Rosie said. She paused thoughtfully. "Mr. Castle? What's your favorite game?"

"Scrabble. Or maybe Pictionary. What's yours?"

"Hide and seek."

He nodded. "That makes sense."

She looked down into her cup. "Michael liked to play hide and seek."

"I think we played it once. Did you know we were in preschool together?"

Rosie nodded. "You're the first person he ever tried to kill."

"He must have been really mad at me."

She took another sip. "This tea is delicious, Miss Patel." But her mind was far away, not tasting it. She blinked, and took a sharp breath, then chewed the inside of her cheek, frowning. She turned to Rick, her voice still small and childlike. "If you want to win the game, you have to go back to where it started."

Rick froze. He took another careful sip of tea, waiting for her to continue. She turned to Dr. Patel. "May I have another cup of tea, please?"

"Of course, Sweetheart," said Dr. Patel.

Rosie said "Put your hands over your eyes. Count backwards from 50."

"Usually it's 100."

Rosie spoke in a loud stage whisper, shielding her mouth with her hands from others' prying ears. "No, this time it's 50. 50 days till they kill her, tops. May 9th to July 4th. 9pm."

Dr. Patel turned to hand Rosie her tea. "Just like the last one," she smiled, seemingly unperturbed by the announcement of imminent mayhem.

Rick said, "Do you ladies mind if I go now? All that tea..." he simpered. "I'm just floating!"

Rosie looked at him anxiously. "Don't go."

"I'll be back tomorrow." He kissed the back of her hand. "I promise. Will you still be here?"

She shook her head. "I don't know."

Dr. Patel said cozily, "And I'll stay here with you. We can have a nice chat..."

The second orderly awaited him on the other side of the door, and saw him out. He caught a brief flash of Dr. Patel's wide eyes, her expression plain as day: _"YES!"  
•_

* * *

**June 21, 1 pm**

Since he didn't have to stay with Dr. Patel for debriefing, Rick got home in time for lunch. He looked into the fridge and sighed, then pulled out the makings for peanut butter-banana sandwiches (he liked his with mustard, which filled Kate with absolute horror). "I keep hoping this thing will magically replenish itself."

Kate felt terrible. "I'm so sorry, I haven't been hungry. I didn't even think to go shopping."

"The housekeeper was supposed to do it," Alexis said absently. She was reading a book. "She called yesterday morning for the shopping list, wants to go back to work but..." she shrugged. "No show."

Rick spun immediately, his entire demeanor changed. _"What?"_

"She didn't show up."

"She's never done that before," Castle frowned.

Kate felt like she'd swallowed a rock. "Did she call?"

"No, why..."

"Anna's one of the few people with access to our loft key," Castle said.

Kate grabbed her phone and called the precinct. Castle found Anna's address and phone number. Alexis just sighed and put her forehead in her hands. "Is this ever gonna end?"

They sent uniforms.

When they got to her house, Anna Ramirez was found alive but dehydrated, having been tied to a chair in her kitchen, blindfolded, her mouth filled with a ball gag. She was dehydrated and still shaking in terror but otherwise unharmed by an assailant – possibly two - who'd snagged her from behind. There was a typed note on her dining room table:

_Look Under Alexis Castle's Box Spring_

Captain Gates herself called Kate to let them know, and Kate promised they'd wait for uniforms to arrive before investigating. But before the words were halfway out of her mouth, Rick started up the stairs. Kate stopped him. "NO. I have a detail coming. Castle, this is not your respons-

"This is my- This is our home, Kate. This _is_ my responsibility." He seemed suddenly massive to her, bearlike in his rage. She backed up the steps ahead of him, using her speed and the stairs' height for psychological advantage, then stopped at the landing, refusing to give ground.

"You don't know what you'll find," her voice was almost a whisper, but utterly firm and commanding. "It could be nothing. It could be anything. A bomb. A body part. Evidence you shouldn't touch for any reason." He tried to dodge past her, but he was slower, and her arms were around him, oddly gentle, where a harsher move would have brought only resistance. "Castle. Please. You're not a cop. You're my husband. We've been through enough." He pouted, but she'd effectively turned the tables on him. She wasn't allowed to nose into the investigation of Kelly Nieman. And he wasn't allowed to take unnecessary risks.

Rick paused, breathing hard, then his shoulders slumped. "All right. Have it your way, but I swear..." His hands, as well as they could, balled into fists.

"Sh. I know, Castle, I know."

Martha said, "Do you think they'll be here soon, Katherine?"

"Of course," Kate said. "Our street unis are already on their way up."

Alexis had sat down at the kitchen island, her face white. "Someone was in my _room?!_"

Rick went over to her and put his arm around her shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Pumpkin."

She took his hand and looked up at him, and he was surprised at the sharp anger on her face. "I am so sick of these... _fuckers,_" she whispered.

A flicker of pride crossed his face. "Me too. I think they've messed with the wrong side of the family tree." She nodded, and Kate saw their stubbornness reflected in one another.

Kate's own hand stole unconsciously to her belly, and she thought, "This baby's gonna give me a run for my money." Baby. So tiny, maybe the size of a bean by now. Rick's _baby._ Our _baby_. _My_ baby. She suddenly understood, for the first time, the raw, immense protectiveness he felt toward Alexis. How wholly appropriate and consuming it could be. And how frustrated he must feel to have his entire family at the mercy of what seemed like endless, evil tentacles reaching for them. Kate already felt protective of the people she loved, but this was a whole new order of magnitude. She came out of her reverie to Martha's smile, her mother-in-law somehow reading it in her body language.

Martha had picked up sandwich-making duty. "It never gets easier," she said, "But it's so worth it."

**June 21, 1:30 pm**  
The doorbell rang, and Kate checked the security feed Jackson had installed. The cops – familiar unis named Blake and Mordecai - raised their faces to the camera, and Kate opened the door. They told her what they'd learned from Dispatch – that there was something hidden in Alexis Castle's bed. The bomb squad arrived a moment later. They had a dog with them, and they got the all-clear for explosives within five tense minutes (The dog got a bit inquisitive about a certain stick of incense that Rick kept in his office, when Rick explained it wasn't strictly legal but not much more explosive than a sparkler, they let it go).

Blake and Mordecai went into Alexis' room and went right to it, pulling the neatly made bed apart and searching under the box spring. All they found was another note:

_Release Kelly Nieman or_

_chose between who dies!_

_the Mowrey girl or Alexis._

_Yes. We know wehre you live. _

_Hehehe!_

Blake checked the kitchen island for spills or moisture, then set down the slip of paper in her gloved hand. She frowned down at it.

"Think the writer might be dyslexic," she said.

Kate nodded. Rick added, "Yes, and possibly with the sensibilities of a fourteen-year-old boy. _'Hehe'?_ Really?"

Kate raised an eyebrow. "Maybe this is someone from your circle of friends."

"I barely know anyone with a typewriter..." he scowled. "Aw, shit."

He hurried into the office, hovered over, but did not touch his vintage manual typewriter. "Shit," he repeated. Kate and the other officers followed him in. Rick huffed, passing a hand over his eyes and into his scalp stubble. "You'll want to dust that for prints."

"Are you sure they used yours?"

"Pretty sure. See how the r tends to fade out at the bottom? That key's been slightly tweaked for years."

Mordecai said, "So they let themselves in with Anna's key and typed up the notes here?"

Rick's shoulders slumped. "Just to show they can."

Kate could read his body language as he turned one way, then another. She'd made similar moves herself, casting about miserably to punch something out of anger. "Castle," she said softly. "The Three Crowns hotel has a punching bag in their gym."

He nodded miserably. "Let's get a few things packed while they go over the goddamned crime scene."

In reviewing Jackson's surveillance footage, one thing finally got settled: how 3XK and his accomplices had managed over the years to enter the loft unmarked. He'd entered the building via the roof, then let himself in by keys he'd been stealing from the housekeeper - through three different lock changes, although only in the last instance had they actually accosted her. The men who'd entered the loft while they were all at the press conference were quite nondescript: medium height, medium build, middle-aged, wholly unremarkable.

The four of them set about packing for an overnight. Within an hour, they were ensconced in adjoining suites at a luxury boutique hotel just off-Broadway. Martha tried to make light of it. "I feel so fancy-free!" she shrugged, with a brittle smile. "One never grows tired of playing gypsy."

Alexis rolled her eyes. "Gram, that's not an appropriate term for the Romany people."

"I'm not talking about an enthicity, I'm talking about a lifestyle choice," Martha snapped. They were all on edge, despite the lovely belle epoque furnishings and view of Central Park.

Rick said to the others, "You just get settled..." He made a restless gesture. Kate nodded. "I'll make a pitstop and meet you down there."

"Down where?" said Martha.

"Gym," Rick said, already half out the door.  
•

* * *

**June 21, 3 pm**  
Kate used the bathroom and unpacked their few things, changed to workout clothes, then grabbed a water bottle (he always forgot) and met him in the little gym on the third floor. The hotel had personal trainers on-call from 6 am to 10 pm. They'd stayed there a few times, and Jake, who was about 5'5" and nearly as wide as he was tall (this being sheer muscle) greeted her with a grin when she stepped in. "Hey, Mrs. Castle!" Rick had changed into the hotel-issued tank and shorts offered by the gym. He was already pounding on a sand bag with Jake steadying it; they paused a moment, Rick for a sweaty kiss and Jake for a handshake. Rick was unable to do much with his right arm aside from elbow jabs, but he still had a wicked left hook despite the slight pull from his scar. Jake winked at him. "You're in at least halfway-decent shape, Rick."

Rick's face was red from exertion; he gratefully swigged some water. "Halfway's better than nothing, at this point," he said.

There was another woman working out there, facelifted and freshly coiffed, walking the elliptical staircase to nowhere, listening to music on her headphones, singing along in a thready little voice "oh Mandy, you came and you gave without takin', but I sent you away..." She gave Kate a slight nod, then fixed her gaze on the silent TV screen. The feed below, "Three kidnapped women still missing..."

Kate smiled to herself. "_Make that two. One's already safe."_ She set herself up on the treadmill and watched the news while she warmed up. "And in a dramatic turn of events, after her bizarre attack yesterday on author Richard Castle, serial killer Kelly Nieman has escaped overnight from a holding cell at NYPD's 12th precinct. She is considered armed and extremely dangerous. Anyone with information as to her whereabouts, and those of her accomplices, is encouraged to come forward." Kate smiled to herself again. There were photos of the actual Kelly Nieman (not Meredith); an excellent 3D forensic reconstruction of 3XK, pics of Grossmann and Bingham (who had a before as well as the after-Perlmutter conversion), and of the man (as yet unidentified) who had tried to spring Meredith from the cell the night before. Supposedly on the loose, but all of them releasing intel in dribs and drabs. The puzzle was starting to fill in. Kate felt a little thrill, and increased the pace of her treadmill to 4 mph with a 3% incline. She found it pretty easy, all things considered.•

* * *

**June 21, 5:30 pm**  
When they got back to the hotel room, glowing and a little sore, it was pitched with gloom. Alexis had been watching TV and barely glanced up at them when they came in. Rick and Kate went and took a quick shower (for once!). They didn't talk much, just moving around and with one another in an efficient dance that anyone observing (and in this case, nobody was) would think had been choreographed.

Rick said, "I'm worried about her."

Kate didn't need to ask who he meant. "Me too."

Dry and clean and dressed, they came out and hit the kitchen, which actually had a decently-sized fridge pre-stocked with the essentials. Kate raided it for milk and Rick started a pot of decaf (because desperation, as we have noted previously, is a terrible thing).

"Where's your grandmother?"

"Taking a nap, I think. Maybe having a good cry. Not sure."

Alexis went to the bay window. She could see the old Dakota Apartments' roof line across the park. John Lennon had been murdered there, before she was even born. Her dad had been only a tween, and it broke his heart. She turned to her dad. "There's no place safe."

"We'll all end up dead, one way or another," he said quietly.

Alexis' brow crinkled. "What, no silver lining today?"

The two women stared at him. He shrugged. Then he smiled, and picked up the phone.

"Hi, Room service? I'd like to order an extra-large, double cheese combo pizza. No anchovies. And can you send up some ice cream? What flavors do you have?" He listened a moment. "All of them. No, wait, not the spumoni." He put his hand over the receiver. "Anyone want chocolate syrup?"

"Hot fudge," said Kate. "And walnuts if they have any."

"Hot fudge. Walnuts and peanuts. And we'll also need two cans of whipped cream. Yes, two entire cans. No, I don't mind. Just put it on the room tab. Yes, really, two cans. Can you please send it up while the pizza's cooking? Yeah." He chuckled. "Yes, you've got it: 'Life is uncertain... eat dessert first.' Thanks. See you soon." He hung up.

Alexis pursed her lips. "Food doesn't fix everything, Dad."

He nodded. "Sometimes there are hollow places, and it feels like nothing can fill them."

She'd expected a light-hearted response. Surprised, she bit back a sob. "I'm so scared."

He walked over to her, hesitated, looking like he wanted to cry. He didn't put his arms out, as if he was almost afraid to touch her. "Can I have a hug?"

"Wha- of course you can!" she threw her arms around his ribs. He kissed the top of her head, and whispered, "Do you think I've done ok?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean," he cleared his throat. "As a dad. I've tried to protect you, but here you are, holed up in a hotel room... again."

"Oh, Daddy. Really?" She looked at him reprovingly. "As Det- As Kate says, 'It's not you, it's the dirt bags." She sighed. "I'm sure that somewhere on this planet, there's a better dad, but I'm not going looking for him when I have you right here."

He held her just a little tighter, then let her go. She added, "You're not just a great dad. You're a good man. So maybe this is what you were _meant_ to do."

"Meant?"

Alexis pulled back, and looked out the window again. "Of all the goofball mystery writers in New York City, they chose to pick on _you?_ Not the smoothest move on their part." She smiled up at him. "You're probably the only person up to the challenge. It's like you were born for this. Like you've been training for something you didn't even know was going to happen."

Castle looked proudly over at Beckett. "Did you hear that?"

Beckett grinned. "Can't argue with that logic."

The doorbell rang. Kate checked the peeper. "Ice cream's here." The cart rolled in with a little tower of six hand-packed silver ice cream buckets. The waitress wore a cute little pillbox hat and red jacket. She posed, spokes-model style. "Six flavors of ice cream. Warmers for hot fudge and caramel, _two_ cans of whipped cream as specified, walnuts, peanuts, almonds..."

"Jimmies!" Kate grinned. "We didn't think to ask for those."

Rick's stomach rumbled, and Alexis patted it. "Go forth and conquer."


	27. Chapter 27

Writing stuff like this makes me really wish I had a dog.**  
**Tomorrow is the Season 7 Castle preview, which will, I hope, be full of delight, suspense, and surprises. I'm so grateful to all the writers and readers who've made this summer pass in such a very entertaining and fulfilling fashion. Cheers to every Castle fan! :-)

**Too Soon Chapter 27 - Swan Song**

_"...In the early morning, the wicked Queen went to the bathing place, which was made of white marble, furnished with soft cushions and carpeted with the most splendid rugs. She took three toads, kissed them, and said to the first:_

_'Squat on Elise's head, when she bathes, so that she will become as torpid as you are.'_

_To the second she said, 'Squat on her forehead, so that she will become as ugly as you are, and her father won't recognize her.' And to the third, she whispered, 'Lie against her heart, so that she will be cursed and tormented by evil desires.'_

_Thereupon the Queen dropped the three toads into the clear water, which at once turned a greenish color. She called Elise, made her undress, and told her to enter the bath. When Elise went down into the water, one toad fastened himself to her hair, another to her forehead, and the third against her heart. But she did not seem to be aware of them, and when she stood up three red poppies floated on the water. If the toads had not been poisonous, and had not been kissed by the witch, they would have been turned into red roses. But at least they had been turned into flowers, by the mere touch of her head and heart. She was too innocent and good for witchcraft to have power over her..."_

* * *

**June 21, 10:30 p.m., South Bronx**

Down in the basement dance studio, Elise Mowry was literally performing her swan song. She knew instinctively that This Was It. Her three captors had been oddly indulgent with her that afternoon, letting her sleep in until four then watch a Julia Roberts romcom, bringing her favorite food – iced coffee, sliced beef pho and a lemongrass chicken banh mi from a local Vietnamese/Italian restaurant, even massaging her legs and back, which were sore for a number of reasons. They didn't let her eat much – no bloating allowed! - but she did get to drink the whole coffee. That might have been a mistake on their part. She had energy to burn, but she was a bit shaky. She'd stretched and warmed up all afternoon. She was now dancing the part of Odette, the Swan Princess. This is a spoiler: Odette dies at the end. Elise was torn between doing it perfectly to buy herself time, and botching her performance to buy herself time. But honestly, these goons didn't know enough about true ballet to tell the difference. Maybe it didn't matter. All she knew was, she didn't want to die.

Over the weeks, Elise's assailants had taken a lot of still pictures of her. Many of them looked like erotic Gothic fantasies, with herself as the fragile, damaged, doll-like heroine, and the three of them in different menacing costumes, their faces never shown. Lots of craft-store crows and skulls, artificial fog, cobwebs, candelabras, fake stone sacrificial plinths. Lots of fake blood, and sometimes real blood and tears, always hers. And they'd taken plenty of video, too, much of it with the refined aesthetics of a 1980s Meat Loaf video.

She had a feeling that of the three of them, Bob Jones and Bill Smith and Ronald (_"Call me Ronald!"_) Brown, Bill Smith was the least eager to kill her, because she really did have a few miles left on her before they made the snuff film. But it seemed that outside forces were closing in, and the three men were just a tick past their usual paranoia.

Sexually, Jones (aka Thomas Garrett) was the most vicious, and he likely would have killed her – slowly – soon after her kidnapping. The others often held him back, and he pouted about it, glaring at her in a different and more speculative way. His was the death metal aesthetic that tinged most of their videos, although he looked like a surbuban dad: wire rim glasses, khakis, polo shirts. So fucking normal – unrecognizable from his Junior Class of 84 high school photo which showed a mile of crimped black hair and a black leather, studded jacket. Jones learned to blend in; he had a wife Sadie (Haha! Really!) and daughter Rebecca somewhere in Queens and drove a used Honda Accord. Sadie (Haha! Really!) liked to shop as an outlet for stress. Jones liked to act out violent fantasies with women half his size. Sadie put up with his "going to the club" three nights a week and his "volunteer time" all day Saturday, because he paid the bills, and he seemed to be better in bed when he had this little social outlet. "Whatever floats your boat," she'd say. Sadie liked it a little kinky, she worked as a dental technician, and people tended to notice when he left marks. So he had to restrain himself. He wasn't able to spend as much time there as the other two men. He had even taken a couple of days off from tending to Elise due to the annual setup of his doughboy pool in the back yard, because Becky liked to invite her little friends in their little bikinis over to swim. He made a point of supervising all her pool parties.

Ronald Brown was the one with the worst social skills. His real name was Steven Montclaire, but his current ID and the name on his paycheck was Lawrence Beams, where he insisted that everyone call him Lawrence, not Larry. He tended to get overexcited and shoot off too fast, which would have been a blessing if he didn't blame Elise for it: and she tried, she really did try to stay as still as possible. He lived fairly close by, in a shared studio a few blocks from his work as a sausage factory manager. He'd bitch to his cohorts about work, about how he'd like to chop Emilio to pieces and strangle Velma with a sausage casing and force-feed Enzo to death from the feeder. Had he used his work to dispose of bodies? When he met new people (which was rare) the question would invariably come up: "So, how _are_ sausages made?" "Never ask," he'd wink, and chuckle nastily, and take a slug from his can of Pabst. He preferred petite girls, and visited Thailand regularly, where he could get them cheap. He refused to eat meat in Thailand, though. He always covered the night shift, since he worked regular hours and didn't have a family to observe his comings and goings. Otherwise, frankly, he wasn't much use except as a grunt.

Bill Smith thought of himself as a warrior-poet, with a degree in communications and a stint as a radio operator in the Army (honorable discharge). He'd seen Billy Jack 17 times, and Enter the Dragon? Well, if CDs could wear out, his would have. He considered himself an entertainment impresario, running his own little business selling self-defense videos, many of them containing information that would actually make a target more likely to be harmed or kidnapped by an assailant. He was obsessed with weapons, surveillance, and the martial arts. He was the one with the video equipment, the talent with electronics, and the patience to record take after take after take. He'd studied Brazilian JiuJitsu for years, and it was he who had physically disabled Elise and gotten her into the van when they kidnapped her. It was he who usually raped her on camera, always wearing a mask. Sometimes he dressed as a ninja, sometimes a beast or demon, sometimes in heavy makeup and a wig. But he had the best body of the three, by far, so he made the best model, although Jones had the best package for close-up work. The only one with tats was Jones, and it was just fuzzy dice and "Sadie" on his upper bicep. Smith always insisted on covering any prominent moles or scars with makeup; Elise's face was never shown full-on, usually veiled or at least half-masked, her lip-line altered with heavy makeup. They sold the videos by subscription to an elite circle of buyers.

Smith had met the other two men – and 3XK for that matter – through his business. He'd ventured a regular correspondence when they gave him glowing reviews (and in a couple of instances, technical pointers). It had taken years to establish trust between them. Now they hadn't heard from 3XK since the crash, which could mean he was dead, and could mean he was underground. They'd watched the press conference over and over, arguing: Smith insisted the woman identified as "Kelly Nieman" was a plant, but the others pointed out she was the right height and weight with great legs, and when the cops yanked her wig off, her hair was exactly the same shade of red underneath.

Against Smith's better judgment, he and Brown had, as contracted with 3XK, continued the press of intimidation against Castle's family: attacking the cleaning lady, stealing her key, getting into Castle's loft during the press conference and having the balls to go back and leave a note. Brown thought it was hilarious, and he was also anxious to please 3XK. Smith thought it was asking for trouble, but since 3XK owned the building and was funding the operation, he had to toe the line. Really, thinking back on it, they should've killed the cleaning lady, Anna Ramirez, as a warning. Maybe they could leave Elise Mowry's body at her house too. That would really yank Castle's arrogant chain.

Elise had been named by her mother for a fairy-tale princess. She'd read Andersen's tale "The Wild Swans" over and over. Her namesake had faced down toads and zombies, blistered hands, lost her brothers brothers to enchantment, and never lost her own sense of self, nor her faith. Now as a young adult who'd spent most of her life sheltered in dance classes, Elise's faith was tested, minute-by-minute, hour-by-hour, day-by-day. And she was not going to let these men in. They called her things like "Sugar" and "Sweetness" and "Sexy" and, when she didn't cooperate, "You Little Bitch." But in her own mind and heart, when she danced, she was Princess Elise. When she posed, she was Princess Elise. When the Three Toads, as she thought of them, touched her, or hurt her, or invaded her body, even when they made it feel things she didn't want to feel and do things she didn't want to do, she was Princess Elise. Inviolable. She rose into the sky in a net of woven reeds, carried by loving swans over the stormy ocean, floating above the sharp rocks. She moved from pain, to pain, to pain, and she remained Elise.

**June 21, 10:09 p.m.**

Kate was asleep on her side, her clean hair still damp, spread out a little on the firm pillow. The evening was balmy and smelled deliciously of rain and the last whiff of hot fudge. Rick pulled away from her, tucked the covers around her back, and bolstered her with pillows. She stirred a moment, and he murmured, "It's all right. Sleep." Just in case she awoke, he left a note on his own pillow: "Out for drinks w/ Espo, back b4 midnight."

He dressed all in black, covered his shoulder holster with a leather jacket, picked up the plastic laundry bag full of whipped-cream-and-fudge-sauce-sticky towels from the bathroom, and took that out with him to the hallway. It was an old hotel, and ants could be an issue in summer, so it was the least he could do. He dropped it off at the housekeeping station on the first floor, and asked for a fresh set to be delivered to the bridal suite in the morning. Leticia Gutierrez, on laundry duty, half-glanced at the bag and suppressed a sigh.

Despite his rather forbidding appearance: a cast, a scar peeking out from under a newsboy cap, and a slight limp – he gave her such a winning smile. "They're sticky, but it's just hot fudge sauce. We had a little, uh, ice cream party."

She nodded at him speculatively, then said, "Well, that's a relief."

"How so?"

"We had a heroin-addict rock star staying here on tour last week."

Castle winced. "God. I am so sorry. It wasn't, uh, our room?"

"Oh! No, honey, we still can't rent it out, the carpet needs replaced."

Castle whipped out his wallet and handed her $40 crisp. "Don't work too hard, Lettie." And he was gone.

She smiled to herself. "That bride's a lucky girl."

* * *

•  
**June 21, 10:30 p.m.**

Jackson met with him in the lobby. Similarly dressed in black, the older man said, "Esposito's already along for the ride."

"Heard from Mo?"

"He'll meet us there."

"Good."

There are areas of the South Bronx that have never recovered from the recession, 'urban renewal', and rash of fires during the 70s: blocks and blocks of burned-out buildings, housing projects that were never finished or that were finished and slowly torn apart by the people who were packed into them tighter than sardines, failed businesses and shells of government buildings and empty warehouses.

Rick had asked his mother about it, but she wasn't much help. "Where did I go to preschool?"

"Oh, dear, I don't remember now. It was a Head Start school, maybe Little Seedlings, Little Twigs. Leafy Shoots? Little Bugs? Something leafy or buggy. I don't remember. You went to four preschools and I haven't set foot in the Bronx since 1977. Onward and upward, Darling." She really didn't want to think about preschool. Or Michael. She beat a hasty retreat to the hotel spa.

He'd tried looking up the preschool online, but it wasn't exactly the sort of information people tended to care about. Even the Head Start administration, which was eternally short on funding, didn't have sufficient manpower to look it up in the paper archives, which were warehoused someplace in DC.

He tried to remember his teachers: Miss Shanita and Miss Janie. Jamie? He'd never known their last names. Like all small children, he thought they just lived there, that they lived for him, that they were kept in little boxes and came out to play when the children arrived. When he had a chance to look over his preschool file in the box he brought back from his storage barn, he found only a hand-written note from Shanita: "Little Richard tends to wander off. Touches things without asking. Sweet boy with an amazing imagination! It's a pleasure to have him in our class." There were a few crayon drawings. Stick-figure Richard and his mother, in front of their brownstone, with a tree and a sun. Stick figures, putting mail in the blue box. Taking the bus, having to write B16 in the sky because the route number wouldn't fit on the rectangular sign he'd drawn. The B16 had been rerouted any number of times depending on construction and the consolidation of different routes, then retired altogether. There was another drawing. The dancing ladies.

* * *

•

**South Bronx, March 27, 1973, 4 p.m.**

Richard was home, sitting at the coffee table with his crayons, drawing the dancing ladies. Mostly legs: brown legs, tan legs, pink legs, beige legs, almost-black and almost-white, and colored tights too: purple, yellow, green, red, pink. Short, long, thick, thin, muscular, bony, all beautiful, in motion, full of power and the remote magical grace of womanhood. Legs from a boy's-eye view, lined up at the barre, a wavy line of floating wraparound skirts all blended together – only one of them white and ruffly. He usually drew dogs and dinosaurs and ray-guns, but for some reason, the dancing ladies must have impressed him mightily, and this drawing impressed Martha enough to keep it. The crayon drawing evoked a vivid memory: a warm spring afternoon. Dancers.

He'd gone down the stairs from the playground, playing hide-and-seek with Michael, when they were still brand-new friends. Before Michael saw Martha and recognized her, before Michael hurt the kitten, before Michael tried to kill him. There was a dance studio in the basement. The music had lured him, the dancers enthralled him. the clean sweaty smell of dancing women (so different from boys playing basketball), arms moving in slow motion, the graceful necks, the eyes, the smiles when they all turned to him. "Awww, he's so _cute_!"

"What are you doing here, little guy?"

Richard had been overcome with shyness, staring wide-eyed. He'd just shrugged slightly, dipped his chin, and smiled up at them through long lashes, which had its usual effect:

"Awww!"

Richard hadn't even heard Michael calling for him.

Michael had come down the stairs, crying. "Where'd you go? You left me!"

Little Richard did what almost-four-year-old-boys do before the Boy Code kicks in: he hugged little Michael. Ovaries pinging wildly, the dance class went nuts.

The lead dancer – the lady in white ruffles – took them both by the hands and gave them a ride in the elevator, back up to the preschool classroom where Miss Shanita was doing a panicked head-count. Miss Shanita had a fit. "Where you been, you scared me half to death!" She hugged them, then benched them ("Never wander off like that again!"), and they sat together, scowling at each other, until Rick's sitter came to pick him up.

All little Richard could think of was that dancing ladies were even better than hiding backstage at one of Mother's plays.

* * *

**South Bronx, June 21, 2014, 11:02 p.m.**

What did the sign in the studio say? Castle couldn't remember. He pulled out his phone and ran a search. "Bronx Ballet." Nothing.

As he sat in the back of the van, putting on a fake beard, wig, and hat, he closed his eyes. They sometimes heard faint music through the floorboards at naptime. Not always classical, sometimes it was a thumping, funky bass. Sometimes outside he'd see the graceful girls leaving in twos and threes, or with their strong, tall-as-trees boyfriends, sometimes see the couples laughing and dancing on the sidewalk.

Not just ballet, then. Modern? Jazz. Early hip-hop?

Search: Bronx Dance 1970s: 23,200,000 results. _Shit._

Search. "South Bronx Dance." _Origins of hip hop. Burned dance hall. Nope._

What did the sign say? He sighed. It just wasn't coming to the surface; he hadn't been quite able to sound out longer words yet. Hell, the building might have been burned down in the fires, sign or no sign. He felt a leaden weight in his belly. _Wrong track. Stupid hunch. Fuck,_ he'd brought all these people out here for nothing. But a little voice, little Rosie's voice, said in his mind, _"Just find her. Hurry."_

The van came to a stop, and he sat frozen in shame, his heart beating too hard. He felt like a complete idiot. He had no idea where to start, except, _"Somewhere in the South Bronx."_

The back door of the van opened, streetlight burst in, and he was met with an explosion of wiggling doggy love, his entire face engulfed in slobbery eau-du-Alpo, his fake beard a bit askew, his hat knocked off. He had to laugh, while Mohammed Atah called out "Damn it, Betsy! Heel!" Mo pulled back hard on the leash and Betsy sat obligingly, now that she'd declared her undying affection and checked Rick's pockets for bacon (there had been a smear of grease on his pinkie from earlier in the day). He did smell, very faintly, of whipped cream behind the ear, in a place he'd missed scrubbing. And he smelled like sex with Pillow Case Kate, who was definitely pregnant and doing just fine.

Betsy also smelled a whiff – only the faintest whiff on his jacket sleeve – of Kelly Nieman. This concerned her a little, but not unduly. There are people upon whom evil can rub off easily, as black dog hair is naturally attracted to white carpeting. Rick was not a white wool carpet. He was Snuggly-but-not-itchy plaid blanket for going-on-a-picnic and falling-asleep-in-the-back-seat.

Rick climbed out of the van feeling oddly better, and Esposito produced a few evidence bags. He had three items: a pair of white dance tights from Elise Mowry, a sleep-shirt from Tiffany Ross (lavender, with hearts and a cartoon skunk), and the typed piece of paper from Anna Ramirez' dining room table, for no other reason than Esposito had a hunch of his own. Mo acquainted Betsy with the three artifacts. There was a hint of Rick's scent from the paper since he'd opened the ream and filled the paper tray, plus had occasionally cleaned eraser crumbs off the rolling typewriter platen with his fingertips. Betsy knew it was Rick's paper. It was the other scent, the man who'd typed on the paper and tucked a similar piece under Alexis' mattress while she was out... that man was bad. Bad, bad, bad man.

She had three people clearly in mind now:

Elise Mowry, who was 22, of French and Danish extraction, and loved to dance so much that she was underweight and had stopped ovulating;

Tiffany Ross, who was 23, pre-diabetic, overconsumed diet soda, had a Corgi mutt and three cats, and lived alone with her mother; and

Steven H Montclaire, aka Ronald Brown, 46, 5'10", 180 lbs, a convicted sex offender wanted for kidnapping, seven counts of rape, three counts of annoying a minor, four counts of breaking and entering, three counts of burglary, one count carjacking, four counts aggravated assault, two counts felony child endangerment, twenty-three counts child pornography, five counts of stalking, two counts of cyber-stalking... Betsy didn't know the words, but she knew his smell. She'd smelled it on five of the bodies – or pieces of bodies - they found in Long Island, and another shallow grave they'd found in Connecticut... Just that little whiff on that piece of typed paper made Betsy's hackles rise. She went stiff and quiet.

Mo said, "Uh-oh." He stroked her face and jaw. "You don't like this guy, do ya, Bets?"

Rick got the eerie feeling that she was about to start growling.

Mo said, "Betsy. Ready? Set."

She sat and licked her chops.

"GO!" And she was casting about, head down, her ears sweeping the dirty sidewalk, walking quickly. Hints, but nothing sure. The four men walked along, even Rick with his slight residual limp easily keeping up with her. But emotionally for Castle, it was hard going. The South Bronx had changed so very much, and so had he: it was night-time. As a very small boy, he'd only passed through in daylight (at least, when he was awake). He'd been just over 3'5"; now he was 6'2", and it was 38 years later. Everything was smaller, or darker, or burned down, or built over. Once again, he felt stupid. He stumbled over something in the sidewalk and swore, then stopped.

It was a recessed bolt in the pavement; there were four total in a square, each about 24" from the other. It was near a the southwest intersection of a two-land and a four-lane street. He looked around, and said, "Stop a second."

"Heel, Betsy." Mo gave her a treat; she licked his hand, then to his surprise, she moved over to Rick and did The Lean against his leg.

Rick's hand went absently to knead and caress the soft, furry wrinkles at the bridge of her nose. Then he got down stiffly on his knees, and reached up to something none of the others could see: an imaginary mailbox. He glanced up at a metal pole with an empty bracket where a bus route sign had once hung.

"That cigarette store was a corner market. The phone store was, it was... a TV and radio repair place. They replaced the awning with a different shape... Next door, the place that's boarded up, it was a barber shop. I loved to watch the barber pole spin. See the brackets?"

"Yeah. I'll be damned," said Esposito. "Bro, you ain't makin' this up!"

Rick shook his head. From closer to the ground, this was so much easier. "We'd get off the bus here, and sometimes Mother would have me put letters or bills in the post box. The blue kind, with the pulldown door. It made a booming noise when it closed. Across the way, I don't remember what was there, but that building's vintage, what, 1990 or so?"

Betsy was watching him, leaning hard. _"You got this, Rick." _She mumbled something like "Mwumpfh."

"My knee's freezing up," he admitted impatiently. Jackson took his son's left wrist and helped him stand in a manly fashion. From across the intersection red and blue lights swept across them, a siren booped, and then a white light dazzled their eyes as a patrol car pulled alongside.

"Hands where I can see them, fellas," said the shotgun uni. The four of them squinted a little, and Esposito identified himself.

"Ok if I pull out my badge?"

"Take it slow."

Espo nodded, held badge and ID out, and the officer examined it, peering with curiosity at his fake pornstar mustache, which didn't match the ID photo – but that was a couple years old and the light was low. "Twelfth precinct? What the hell you doin' out here?" He seemed friendly enough about it. In fact, if anything, his pornstar mustache was bigger than Esposito's.

Mo said, "Takin' the dog for a walk." He handed Kavakian his card and badge.

Kavakian shone the flashlight in Mo's face. "Mohammed Atah? Seriously?"

Mo shrugged. He'd perfected this air of weary geniality. It was a survival mechanism based on sharing a name (although not quite the same spelling) with one of the most notorious and hated criminals ever to hijack a plane. "Black sheep of the family." He bent a little toward Betsy, and caressed the loose skin on the back of her neck. She stood and gave him The Lean, crowding against his knee, thumping her tail gently. He wasn't supposed to let her lean, but it made them both feel better.

Seeing Betsy's harness, although she wasn't wearing a vest, it was logical to conclude she was a service dog. "She's a beauty. Where you based? C'mere, Sweetie." Mo urged Betsy forward, she sniffed Officer Kavakian's hand to suss him out. _(Armenian extraction, both male and female lovers, lives in Brooklyn, is partial to sour-apple-flavored hard candy, uses depilatory cream to remove unwanted body hair.)_

Jackson volunteered, "We're headed out for a few brews at the steakhouse on Longwood."

The unis exchanged a look and wrinkled their noses. The driver pulled out a card – Patrol Officer Tung "Charlie" Nguyen - and handed it to Esposito. "They water their drinks. Go to Luigi's. BEST samwiches. My cousin owns it. Tell Tuy at the bar I sent you."

Espo grinned. "Your cousin's named Luigi?"

"Nope, it's Hieu Nguyen. Married old Luigi's granddaughter Angela in 2009."

Espo shrugged. Castle said, "I bet the wedding was epic."

"Reception lasted two days."

Mo said, "Hey, does Luigi's have lobster rolls?"

Betsy moaned.

The patrol car's radio squawked about a 211. "Gotta serve. Stay outta trouble." They turned the corner and roared off south.

They turned up Fox Street and walked a couple of blocks, and suddenly Rick found himself speeding up. "This feels familiar."

Esposito's phone buzzed in his back pocket. "Beckett wants to know if you're with me. Says she found your note."

Castle sighed "Busted," nodded, and pulled out his phone, stepping away to the corner. Betsy yipped in frustration.

"Hey, Beckett."

"I woke up to pee and found your note. Where'd you guys go?"

"I stopped by the precinct and met up with Esposito for a beer. Jackson's with us, too." He shouldn't have said that. He didn't want her to worry. "Don't worry." The three other men looked at him as if he was a complete moron. Even the dog groaned.

Beckett's voice sounded clipped. "Castle..."

"Whoa, it's my turn for darts-" here, Betsy barked impatiently – she'd caught a whiff of something - he motioned Mo to quiet her down. "I'll call you back in a few minutes."

Kate glared at her phone. She hadn't heard any music or crowd noise. "Where are you playing darts? The pound? _Castle_?"

_Click_.

* * *

**Saturday, June 21, 11:16 p.m., Brooklyn**

Kevin Ryan's phone rang. He rolled over and slapped himself in the face with it. "Mryan."

It was Beckett. "Oh, God, Kev, did I wake you?"

"No, no, sup?" He never said _wassup, _let alone_ sup_. Dead giveaway. He stumbled out of the bedroom and passed Jenny, sprawled on the couch with the baby nestled on her chest, both of them sacked out and drooling

"Can we run a tracer on Espo's phone? I have a bad feeling."

"Yeah, sure. I'll call it in if you don't want to." He poured himself a glass of chocolate milk, because Jenny wasn't awake to talk him out of it, then added a heaping teaspoon of instant coffee, because nobody was there to laugh at him, and sucked it down before calling the precinct.

**June 21, Three Crowns Hotel, 11:18 p.m.**  
Kate got dressed, grabbed her badge and gun and another slice of pizza out of the fridge, and picked off the pepperoni into the trash – it had made her feel a little weird. She called a town car and headed to the Twelfth.

* * *

**June 21, 12th Precinct, 11:32 p.m.**

Tori Ellis was there, working late, sifting through endless files on possible kidnappers, and the web of associations Steven Montclaire (aka Ronald Brown) had assembled into a loose ring of genuinely creepy porn purveyors. It was depressing work, stuff she didn't want to see, and it made her mad as all hell. It was a relief to take the call from Ryan, and it was easy enough to track Esposito down in the South Bronx. Ryan said, "He's not on duty."

Tori said, "Maybe he's visiting a friend. Does he have a girlfriend?" Her voice sounded a little too casual. Ryan wondered if she knew about Lanie.

"Not in the South Bronx, he doesn't," Ryan said. "Keep an eye on it. I'll be in soon."

Kate Beckett came striding in a few minutes later, on the phone to Ryan. "Hey," she said. "Don't even come up. Can you have the car ready to go? Good. Thanks, I'll be down in a minute."

She leaned over Tori's shoulder, looking at the neighborhood. "What are you guys looking for?" she murmured. It was mixed use: light industrial, small commercial, car washes, body shops, a garden statuary yard, storage, shipping and receiving, and a whole lot of abandoned housing projects and empty lots with occasional pockets of gentrification. The South Bronx? She'd half-heard Castle talking about preschool, about Michael and the preschool, about playing on the monkey bars... "Tori, show me the parks in the area. Any old parks that fell by the wayside in urban renewal? Old schoolyards?"

* * *

**June 21, South Bronx, 11:36 p.m.**

They walked another block, and Castle cast about like a blind man, or someone wading up to his hips in dark water.

"The playground," he whispered.

Betsy was trotting along, head up now, testing the air, sifting out traces of a million passersby over the last few months alone, just to find, who? One of the girls? The bad man? Mo stopped her and gave her the scents again, reminding her. She cast about, and... THERE. She could smell Montclaire on the breeze, smell a handprint he'd left on the door at this corner bodega four days ago – Zadi's Stop & Save - when he went to buy a carton of half-and-half and a banana for the girl, who had a leg cramp. She could smell the girl, too, Elise Mowry, on his hand print. He'd been touching her. He'd been hurting her. Elise was too scared. Elise was dying inside.

Betsy went a little nuts then, snuffling at the door. She growled, then her jowls swept aside the cigarette butts and chewing gum wrappers on the sidewalk in front of Zadi's. She made Mo's favorite noise: "BORU!" This was the Call of Being Sure. It was also her family's rallying cry, going back over a thousand years.

* * *

**Ireland, approximately 971 a.d.**  
Brian Boru, incidentally, was a great Irish king, who was very fond of dogs. Both Castle and Ryan were distant descendants, and Betsy was very, very distantly descended from Brian Boru's favorite wolfhound – who was actually a sight hound, huge and gangly, five thousand generations ago, whose name is now lost to history. But that was one very good dog. And the thing that made Brian Boru king? That was his memory: memory of loss, memory of music and laughter, memory serving his quest for justice. That, and his ability to inspire the people around him. His bloodline ran slim but true in both Castle and Ryan, both of whom should have been home snuggling with their respective wives.

* * *

**June 21, South Bronx, 11:36 p.m.**

Betsy invoked the Muse of Justice again. "BoRUUUU!" Rick felt his heart leap, and he turned his gaze this way and that, settling on a large, mostly-dark brick building looming over an abandoned playground. Castle's eye fixed on a tiny light like a star beaming from the side, down about two feet from the foundation. He started heedlessly across the dark street. Betsy did the same, nose to the ground, her forehead flaps hanging down over her eyes. Mo pulled her up with a curse and a shout. A Yugo rounded the corner and nearly hit Castle as he made his beeline for that little star. Jackson hauled him out of the way, and the grand tradition of mutual cursing was honored before the car lurched away in a flurry of fast food wrappers. It squealed off down the dark street, maxing out at its top speed of 46 mph as the muffler dragged and sparked on the pot-holed pavement.

Betsy heard the music first, then Esposito, though neither knew what it was called. Mo knew it as the music from the opening credits of Karloff's Mummy movie (he was a bit of a movie geek). Jackson couldn't quite catch it until they were nearly upon it, and Rick... well, he'd definitely lost some hearing acuity, so it took some time for him to sort the notes out.

"Swan Lake?" he whispered.


End file.
